The Spare Holmes
by WhiteGloves
Summary: Younger Colonel James Moriarty cunning and derange like his older brother, and more vengeful, appears and kidnaps the Holmes brothers and arranges for equality in number. If London could be rid of the Napoleon of crime, then it could also be rid of one of its finest defender. And there shall be a spare brother no more. (possible spoilers)
1. The Parcel

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~I~**

 _"It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have said nothing of that event which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to ﬁll. My hand has been forced, however, by the recent letters in which **Colonel James Moriarty** defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred."_

\- _J.H Watson (The Final Problem)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Parcel_

* * *

 _"I don't understand this."_

Sherlock spat crossly as he threw the remote control of the telly down the couch with a look of complete annoyance reflected on his face. "This broadcast when he's clearly dead. Absolutely dead. Is it to terrify people or simply annoy me? Very remarkable."

" _Remarkable?_ I thought you said you didn't understand it?" John threw him a look as he sat on his chair with elbows on the armchair, "Hang on—are you really sober enough for this? Not still OD'd are you?"

"Don't start and get over it." The detective snapped as he leaned back, a curt frown appearing on his face, "I'm sober as sober goes and nothing in the world can make it so than seeing that face again."

Both men facing the telly looked up where a paused televised of Jim Moriarty's face that appeared around London simultaneously three days ago stared back at them with dead eyes.

"You're dead." Sherlock muttered to the man looking down at him, "So who are you?"

John was quiet too. Then went on, "You told me you went off and finished his inner circles while you were pretending to be dead. You sure you got all of them?"

"There's that one, Colonel Sebastian—"

"The bloke from the army—" the doctor added—

"But Mycroft's been keeping a tab of him and my brother wouldn't shut up if Sebastian comes anywhere near here. There's silence in 221B thus... shouldn't be any problem. No, this singular case is unique... just like all of Moriarty's schemes... bad it's a bad joke, John. Somebody knew Moriarty... out there in the free world I thought I rid of him."

"It's worst," the doctor narrowed his eyes too, "what kind of sick lunatic would even dare do this now? After all these years?" He shot his friend a look of alarm. "You don't think whoever it is will come for you, do you?"

"Out of question, let them come." Sherlock shrugged his shoulder and put both fingers together. "That should make our search short."

He grinned while John rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious—"

"You're always serious-"

" _Enough jokes!_ Sherlock, whoever this bloody person is they _will_ target you! You brought Moriarty down we don't need anyone to tell us their next target is you!"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled in excitement as John said this, making the doctor close his eyes and shake his head in exasperation.

"Just how many deaths do you want to experience?" he said bitterly when they heard the bell ring from below and Mrs. Hudson answering, "It's not, don't take this one lightly, Sherlock. I know you... you need help, you call me, understand?"

"That's why you're here in the first place isn't it?" the detective threw back at him with a raised eyebrow, "You think I'd go anywhere without my Boswell?" he grinned again. John smiled a little but with that reprimanding look in his face.

"Where's Mycroft anyway?" he asked after a while, "He's the person who should know what's going on."

"Walking around the Parliament most likely—no wait—we're lucky if he even _moves,_ he's so lazy." Sherlock waved the question away, "Been trying to get hold of him but he shuns each call."

"Shun you, why would he shun you? He knows you need his help—"

"I _don't_ need his help. He offers it. Got plenty of time in his hands, my brother." The detective corrected with an uncomfortable look, making John heave a sigh once again. "He's busy being CIA again, I concluded."

"You're being nasty, you know that," John went on, "Stop looking at your brother like he doesn't care at all—each time I see him he's always been the caring sort. What do you got against the guy?"

"Oh, now so you're defending him?"

"I'm telling you what you already know and still refuse to see!"

"Obviously you're blinded—"

"Go have your eyes check, Sherlock, Jesus."

"Are you two boys quite done yet?" Mrs. Hudson's voice suddenly called from the doorway where she stood looking mildly dreamy, "I can hear you all the way downstairs, you know. If the neighbours—"

"We _don't have_ neighbours." Sherlock corrected again with eyes locking with John who looked back determinedly. "Thanks to dear brother Mycroft."

"Mycroft eh?" Mrs. Hudson strolled inside and straight to her two tenants, "I haven't seen him in a while, is he going to drop by any time soon?" she stopped beside Sherlock's chair and handed him a small box the size of a palm wrapped in blue paper.

"I wouldn't count on that. What's this?" the detective frowned at the blue parcel passed to him.

"The mail man delivered it just now." the landlady said, with a blink while the man shook it and even smelt it. "Said it was for you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There's no return address."

"Sherlock," John said carefully with eyes on the parcel, "You... might want to be careful with that?"

"Clearly." Sherlock's frown deepened as he raised his eyebrows and started removing the wrap, revealing an ordinary box with a lid inside. "Any chance it's a bomb or aerial virus?"

Mrs. Hudson took step backwards while John sat up straight, making Sherlock smirk and take the lid off.

And Mrs. Hudson gave a loud gasp and cried away in dismay and disappointment, leaving the two thunderstruck at the content—a _finger._ John having been accustomed to such stood up and went near Sherlock who, at the same time, stood up too looking as if he was in a trance.

"No..." he muttered. "No..."

"My god," the doctor muttered, "a finger? Why would anyone send you a fing—? Wait—Sherlock!"

For Sherlock Holmes had suddenly decided to tear his way down the stairs in his hurry, almost knocking over Mrs. Hudson who was at the foot of the stairs—

"Why do you just panic now? It's a human finger- oh!" she called after him in dismay as the man bolted open the door and looked from left to right and up and down the street wildly with John at his heels.

"Sherlock!"

"Dammit!" the dark haired man cursed as he paced up and down the pavement, looking pale and angry for reasons John couldn't comprehend except for the finger still held in the detective's hand.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" the doctor grabbed his friend by the arm and tried to make him stay foot, "Hey—hey! Do—do you recognise whose finger that is? Sherlock!"

"It's his ring! It's Mycroft's ring!" came the stricken reply, "Mycroft—!"

And sure enough the memory of Mycroft's ring finger flashed in the doctor's mind that made him turn as pale as his friend for Sherlock couldn't be wrong about this lone reference to his older brother. After all, _Mycroft invades half of Sherlock's mind palace!_

 _"Jesus..."_ John breathed.

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: We all have different ideas of the mastermind behind that cheeky faces of Jim around London ;)_

 _This is one version. And oh-so-love-canon xD_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	2. The Bait

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~II~**

 _"They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."_

\- S.W. Holmes _(The Copper Beeches)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Bait_

* * *

 _"His dominant hand,"_ John remembered Sherlock saying a long time ago when he pointed out the meaning of Mycroft's golden ring on his right hand, " _it means his dominant hand. But I would've told you only that if you were a stranger. Since you're not then you might as well know—a gentleman wears their signet ring by their left, right? Queen's right hand men wear it on whichever hand happens to be dominant. My brother's right handed, obviously."_

 _"Queen's right hand...?"_ John remember repeating, making Sherlock roll his eyes and snap—

 _"Secret service, John. The Secret Service."_

The golden band on the right ring finger inked with dots of blood shook the doctor. The finger looked fresh in John Watson's eyes that for a second a picture of Mycroft captured and tormented by his captor with a missing finger and blood flowing on the floor flashed in his mind that sent his feet cold. It wasn't like him to turn pale at seeing blood and flesh, but the idea of _Mycroft Holmes_ —Sherlock's brother—was enough to make him panic inside and mentally find possible ways to help—but how? Where do they start?

The same pattern of thought seemed to have occurred earlier to the younger Holmes who continued turning on the spot with eyes clouded as if digging deep inside his mind palace for own possible solutions but finding nothing.

"We need to find him." Sherlock suddenly muttered as he licked his dry lips, "we need to trace this back—"

Sherlock's unnerved appearance reminded John of those times the man was emotionally overwhelmed and just knew he had to step in for fear that the man might do something _dangerous_ and uncalculated; the detective was prone to it no matter how clever he was that John was forced to calm himself.

"B-but are you sure?" the doctor tried to take the parcel from the detective's hand who snatched it back to look at it again with jaws tight, eyes clearly trying to dispel any tricks or misidentification but failing miserably— "This is Mycroft we're talking about! He can't simply be snatched away from his place without raising an alarm... _can he_?"

The blank look Sherlock gave him was the most disconcerting thing John had seen.

"It's his... I'm sure—"

"For god's sake, _call him_!" the doctor cried, feeling even more unnerved by the minute and watched as the man grabbed his phone and was about to dial—only to find it ring instead.

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. The phone continued ringing that by the time it was answered the two had already formed wary expressions and held their breaths for what's coming—and the detective raised the cell phone on his ear.

 _"Learned to use your head just now, did you? Aren't you slipping?"_ said a voiced machine on the other line.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Who's this?"

" _You got my parcel? I thought I had to put its name tag for you to recognize but then, seemed like you really are familiar with your dear brother."_

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock clenched his teeth in hot anger while John shook his head as he tried to catch the words of his friend and just knew nasty things were being exchanged.

 _"If you want to see the whole of package of where that came from, you're going to follow exactly as I say."_

Sherlock's jaw tightened as he listened well to the cackling voice on the other line.

 _"That's very good. Now you may want to get rid of your friend or I'd gladly do that for you."_

Sherlock shot John a look who understood the messaged and shook his head vigorously—but then the detective raised his hand and a cab pulled near—making John pull Sherlock's collar in anger—

"Sherlock, _you're not going alone—_ "

"You stop me and my brother's dead! We're all dead." He narrowed his eyes at his best friend who stared back at him with the same determination of a loyal ally, only that, Sherlock was more adamant as he pulled away from his clutch and turned to the cab's door. "Don't follow John. He's got eyes on you. If we don't do as he say Mycroft will lose an eyeball."

The cab door shut close with Sherlock's eyes transfixed to his best friend and waited long for that reluctant nod.

And John Watson watched as the cab pulled away, carrying his friend to wherever end their nameless enemy was planning him to head. Helplessly. It left a bad taste on the doctor's mouth.

Once gone from Baker Street, Sherlock turned to the phone but more calmly than before.

"Now talk. _What do you want?"_

There was a chuckle on the other end. Then the changed voice replied—

" _Nothing a short compromise wouldn't do. Go to this address while your brother and I wait. That is—if both of you behaves and do not involve anyone unnecessary. This is a family feud we're dealing with." A chuckle that sounded like faulty wiring_

The line died and Sherlock nearly crushed the phone in his hand.

* * *

The instruction of the location was too _safe_ , if Sherlock was to put it. He was told to drop off near Holborn, was told to ride another cab north for an approximate time of 45 minutes, before dropping off and getting snatched by a black car that drove him away for hours with its dark tint blinding him of the outside world.

The end was as Sherlock guessed when the car stopped and three men came to greet him in a dark, murky place almost by dusk. A large, empty factory building by Glasgow in the middle of the woods. The countryside, he was sure it was. He tried to mentally picture England's map and provinces, trying to identify the location and to find means of escape.

Only that, once lead inside the darkest inside of the factory with its high ceiling almost dimming the lights did the idea of escape literally ' _escape'_ him for there, on the floor was a man's unmoving body. Sherlock hastened to cross the distance between him and the body only to find the body too _stiff_ and _cold._ Dead.

"Mycroft!" the dark haired man yelled as he felt the body with his _own body_ going cold. "Mycro—"

It wasn't his brother's face that greeted him, however. It was a different man. _An unknown dead man._

With eyes rounding, Sherlock studied the figure and convinced himself it really wasn't Mycroft. The body figure, its mass and measurement was almost the same with his brother, only that... it really wasn't him—but Sherlock did notice the dead man's missing finger. And everything came crashing to him as he realized the plot behind the parcel.

"It's funny how easy it is to find an almost exact copy of other people's physical body, isn't it?" a new voice spoke from somewhere in the dark, making Sherlock look up to the owner and finding shadows. "It's a bit like going to a shopping mall and choosing what looks good on you and finding the same thing on your neighbour's bin. But then I shouldn't be explaining... you're not one to be talked at about finding dead bodies useful to you, are you?"

Sounds of steps started getting closer. Sherlock Holmes stood in his full height as he waited for the proprietor to reveal himself. It didn't take long and once the lights of the high ceiling found him, Sherlock was surprised at the resemblance of the man to that _other_ person he had considered long gone.

A Moriarty.

Indeed, the pale thin face, pointed chin, eyes, lips, eyebrows— that gait and even that mannerism of his gesture—all of whom screaming of a _Moriarty._ Except those clothes and age. Younger. And unlike Jim Moriarty's style this one was wearing a casual white sleeved shirt under a thick set of black leather jacket and white pants. White shoes. It spoke some volume of disturbing insights on Sherlock's part.

"Where's my brother?" the detective warily started as his eyes studied those identification he could discern from the man's nonverbal message. It didn't give him good results but it was nothing he didn't expect. Somebody sending him a dead finger was capable of the nastiest of things. This one was beyond what Sherlock was expecting.

The unknown man smiled. "Not asking who I am?"

Sherlock looked down the body, ignoring the man for a moment, before looking up again.

"He's not here." It was a statement that sent a delighted expression on the unknown man's face.

"You understand." The man said, walking even closer with hands straight down his sides. Then all of a sudden the man laughed aloud—so loud it echoed at the dead factory and rang in Sherlock's ear who stood in alarm at how seemingly deranged—how out of control the person was—much like its kin. "And they said you were clever!" the man then shouted in glee, hands clapping. "Not feeling too smart now, are you?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"I wouldn't count on that." He whispered, his mind working furiously. "I had my reasons for coming."

" _Oh, don't be a spoiler!"_ the man shook his head and stepped even closer, "Just what other reasons would make you come here except your brother? I could've taken John Watson you know—but then realized its really old school and there's really no challenge in taking the guy? You know he jumps at every sedan he sees thinking always it's your brother's? How thick can he get?"

They were standing a meter apart in no less than a minute and it was where the man stopped. They eyed one another, like fighting cocks in a cockpit, preparing to launch the first attack. Then Sherlock's impulse got the best of him as he crossed the distance, making them standing a foot from one another.

Making Moriarty's doppelganger smirk.

"You do realize who I am?" he asked the detective who didn't even bat an eye.

"Moriarty."

"True." He nodded taking pleasure for being acknowledged and shrugging. "I wasn't a bit like my brother, see. Unlike him I'm not some attention seeker-prat of a criminal; and certainly not the guy who guns himself down for being outsmarted. No, I like it differently. I especially like it if there are personal feelings involve. The thrill, you know? The drama?"

He snickered with shoulders almost shaking uncontrollably.

Sherlock's frown deepened as his senses told him to clear off the man.

"So you're here to avenge him? Of course." The detective breathed as he looked around in deep understanding of the situation, "That television appearance of that man, of course that was you."

"Don't be upset, he's my brother." shrugged Moriarty, "I had to do it when I heard they were sending you away. Now it wouldn't be half as fun if only brother Mycroft was here to entertain my spiteful revenge right? And let's face it—he won't even look _my way_. He's cold as freezing point, I heard. Without proper incentive I might as well kill myself and he won't even recognize my given name. That's why, _you."_

"Mycroft has nothing to do with your brother." Sherlock looked the man straight in the eye, already realizing what the man was trying to point out by mentioning his brother. "It was me who drove him to kill himself. You should take your revenge on me."

Moriarty nodded slowly as if letting the idea sink in. But the way he shook his head next disturbed Sherlock.

"You don't get it, do you? You're not my chase. I could kill you anytime the same my brother could do if he wasn't such a lunatic fan of yours and wasted time. No—I want that guy who evaded _my brother._ Who my brother could not even touch because _you_ were on the way. Not realizing that the most interesting one was really just farther of you... get my point?" he smiled with a make face like it was the most explainable thing in the world. "You're that person's last defence yet also, his vulnerable weakness. And then again I'm told—you're smart. But not _the_ smart one."

And Sherlock understood what was to come next as the man pulled his black cell phone out and smiled at him.

It was his body that acted first even before his mind could make up a decision to attack— but a blow on his head sent the detective's body forward, his mind whizzing in pain... and darkness swallowed him excruciatingly.

* * *

The next thing Sherlock knew was his eyesight doubling as it opened, felt his body could not move for he was tied in a chair tightly, and then a man in front of him who was saying something incomprehensible.

And Mycroft's voice joining the silent fray.

"I hope you didn't drug him, god knows there's plenty of that in his system already." The voice sounded grim, but self control was dominant and no detection of fear could be heard, making Sherlock shake his head to have a proper view as he tried to remember the context of the conversation.

"Oh, don't worry. I just clobbered him. Saves me a lot of trouble." The next voice said.

"So I see." Mycroft's voice turned icy.

And everything came back to Sherlock in a jolt as he stared at Mycroft standing beside him with a curt frown on his forehead. And Moriarty across them with a winning smile on his face.

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: Moving forth to the action! Brace yourself and mind the warning!_

 _Splash of colour and blood!_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	3. The Brother

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~III~**

 _"'I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I am by no means a nervous man._

 _At the same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you.'"_

\- S.W. Holmes _(The Final Problem)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Brother_

* * *

 _"He's really sick, isn't he?"_

 _John Watson stepped briskly into their 221B room a long time ago when he and Sherlock used to share the lodging. Sherlock Holmes who was on his table with his microscope and wearing his brown coat didn't even bother to look up as he asked in his indifferent voice—_

 _"Who?"_

 _"Who else?" his friend retorted._

 _"Aside from everyone else—?"_

 _"Your brother!" John injected in annoyance as he threw himself on the couch their clients usually take, making Sherlock gave him a short glance up before bothering himself with the eye piece and his microscope again._

 _"What he do," he quietly asked after a moment— "this time?"_

 _"He automated a cab I was riding towards Diogenes club! The cab driver was freaking out! He didn't know what to do when the wheels stopped responding and both of us were magnetized towards godknows where! And he almost jumped out of the window if I didn't insist it was alright and that some psycho government official was behind it all!"_

 _Sherlock gave a snort and chuckle. John's eyes flashed._

 _"You think it's funny? The driver nearly broke his neck trying to be free from his possessed vehicle! And for what? For some inquiry if you're working on a case lately? It's pointless!"_

 _"Nothing's pointless with my brother, John." Sherlock shrugged as he turned to his microscope. "Thought you knew."_

 _"Say what you will, he still pissed me off! How can the British government give him so much power he can use even at the most useless things like spying on citizens, invading their atms and things like that?" he threw his friend a dirty look but the detective didn't pay any more heed except to answer._

 _"Don't bother feeling vexed, he won't respond. You know Mycroft doesn't bother with normal human crisis like waiting in line or hiring a cab or holding hands. He's just being an idiot brother like usual." He suddenly straightened his back and only then did he return the look of the doctor, "And you're plain mistaken. Mycroft isn't powerful because of the British Government. The British Government is powerful because of Mycroft."_

 _"Tsk." John looked away. "Stop gloating about your brother."_

 _"Am really not."_

* * *

Sherlock shut his eyes in pain and bowed his neck feeling light headed and somewhat nauseous as the pain at the back of his head racked his brain. He guessed a minor concussion and had to grit his teeth at being so vulnerable on such occasion with his brain half dead and arms tied. He remembered where he was and the cause of the situation that after a moment, he breathed a heavy sigh. Then confirming that his brother was really there on his side made him utter a curse.

 _"You shouldn't have come._ "

"Hello to you too." Mycroft said somewhat pleasantly but with an edge at the end of his voice that told the detective he meant the opposite. Sherlock looked up and exchanged a meaningful look with his older brother who was also watching him with reproach. "Got in over your head there, little brother?"

Sherlock didn't answer. There was too much anger inside him that wanted out. They were still in the same empty warehouse with its lights too dim from high above the ceiling, covering the spacious area with nothing save shadow and darkness. He was bounded on the chair and across him another chair by a table was present. He could guess for whom it was allotted. Looking up with strain, he saw that there were only his brother, himself and the mastermind of the abduction under the lights, and that they were the three unlikely people to ever come out of an argument _alive_.

Mycroft Holmes, as Sherlock had observed, was in his three piece suit and tie with his dark overcoat folded by his arms, his umbrella missing that suggested he was in a hurry to come at the unexpected invitation. He stood high and tall with eyes boring on Moriarty's figure this time, who was also watching him with the same intensity.

And Sherlock realized the gravity of the situation they were in.

However there was not a trace of fear in all of Mycroft's features that somewhat eased the detective. This was Mycroft after all. With nose sniffing for hope, Sherlock tried to focus his eyes on his brother who was watching Moriarty with the same plain look he graces unworthy people. His expression said as much as he asked quite in his devil-may-care attitude—

"And you are?" His voice was cold blooded. Mycroft was not a forgiving sort when the circumstances asked for it.

"My, my, Mr. Holmes," laughed Moriarty who clapped his hands together, "Bit chilly—but that's a wrong question! As if you didn't know already? You of all people—? But then, why not? Maybe there are really things even _you don't know."_ He quaked in his own merriment while Mycroft remained standing still, eyebrows raised high.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, feeling the rope on his shoulders unyielding to his efforts. Escape was impossible.

"Don't bother, Sherlock, you're out of the game at the moment." Moriarty suddenly turned to Sherlock as he straightened up, "Do stay still and behave like a real hostage, all right? And oh, where are my manners, Mr. Holmes?" he turned to Mycroft too and chuckled, "I'm so sorry, I'm just so flustered having the two of you here finally after all those times of yearning and plotting— _the Holmes brothers at my clutches!_ Boy isn't he happy now eh? Isn't he some proud big brother?" he looked up the sky and raised both hands as if addressing everything there, before turning back to the brothers with eyes turning darker than ever. "I'm sorry I must be speaking to my brother who's no longer around thanks to Sherlock. But that can be arranged, can't it, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft's expression changed as he seemingly understood the message and for the first time he did look disturbed. Moriarty saw that and smiled.

"You really catch up easily, don't you?"

"Hardly with any efforts. You're just too obvious. All the same," with a glance at his younger brother, Mycroft opened his arms in a gesture and added, "here I am. What do you intend to do and how do you suggest we end this?"

"Woah, patience." The man gloated as two men about his height came behind Mycroft and rooted themselves on both of his sides. "We have all evening to discuss who lives and who dies with me standing as the god but before that— if you don't mind, Mr. Holmes?" Moriarty raised a hand towards the older Holmes, "My men would like to take care of a few things for you? We can't be too careless with you, see?"

Sherlock watched the two men looked pointedly at Mycroft who merely sighed.

Then they took his coat and removed his light grey jacket and waist coat, leaving him only with his white sleeves; and then seize him for a body inspection. Mycroft stared blankly at Moriarty with narrowed eyes.

"Too afraid to burn yourself with my clothes?" he asked in sarcasm that made Moriarty smirk but he didn't look pleased as he nodded his head to his men. Then came the rough part when one of the men pulled Mycroft's hands backwards and tied him with a rope forcefully, making the older Holmes clench his teeth at the sudden strain on his shoulders before pushing him toward the empty chair where Moriarty was already waiting.

"What does it feel like, following someone else's orders aside from the mother Queen?" he asked when they were face to face and Mycroft puffed his chest out.

"Like a cow in a dress."

Moriarty smiled slightly—and then in a flash— grabbed Mycroft's neck tie and lugged it with such a force that surprised the man who nearly fell down as he lost balance and choked had it not for the loosening of the tie itself. Sherlock sat up straight and gritted his teeth but didn't say anything as he watched his brother be forced to sit down the empty chair while their adversary held the tie on his hands.

"I've always wanted to do that, you know." He said conversationally as Mycroft closed his eyes tight only to open them with a sharp gleam in his eyes. "I think a hell lot of people wanted to do that, Mr. Holmes. Choke you maybe, by the noose, asphyxiation? Do you always put this on all your ties?"

He turned the blue necktie upside down to reveal a tiny dark object blinking with a tiny red dot: a _tracker._ Sherlock knew there was always _something_ with Mycroft. He just wished it was not the last one under his sleeves.

James Moriarty smiled in triumph and gave the tie to one of his men while Mycroft eyed him.

"What do you want?" he started again when Moriarty sat with one leg on the table next to him.

"That's more like it. Let's be civilized." Moriarty leaned his hand on his raised leg and stared at the British government official with some hint of awe. "My brother Jim had never been a fan of yours. He thought you were boring and too cold. I think otherwise. I think you're the most dangerous man in all Britain."

"So you think." Mycroft, undaunted, eyed the man back with seemingly all his senses in high alert. "If I had been your target from the very start you should've made more of an effort."

"Oh, but I did." Shrugged the man as he inclined his head to the younger Holmes, "What do you think he's doing here? Nothing else in the world could make you leave the rails of your feet if not for your brother. And you're really someone who'd only show himself personally if real crisis arouse. This is one of them, isn't it? Glad you could follow the simple instruction of getting here without actually being followed by your own secret service."

"Your invitation made it quite irresistible to begin with." The older Holmes said icily.

"I hope you didn't mind me taking your photo, Sherlock?" Moriarty nodded at the younger Holmes who gave him a mad dog stare, "It's the only express way to get your brother, see?"

Mycroft glanced at his brother who stared back at him too and the two spoke volumes in their silence.

"Must be nice," Moriarty said somewhat offhandedly as he watched his captives, "to have a brother who understands you, isn't it, Sherlock? But then I wouldn't know, thanks to _you_. Jim's always been obsessed with you."

"So is this a point of neglect?" Sherlock found his voice and saw an opportunity for the attention to be drawn for himself. If Mycroft has a plan— _and he was sure his brother has—_ there was no point in making him suffer such a boring companion. "Your brother was indifferent to you— and you're letting it all out on me?"

"No, not you." Moriarty said acidly as he stared at the detective's way, "I told you I could have killed you many times but that won't suffice my thirst for brother's loss. So we play here—and the point is a _brother for a brother_. It's been decided who will die today." He smiled down at Mycroft.

Sherlock forgot how painful his head was or how numb his shoulders had become— the message was enough to make him think clearly. Mycroft himself didn't seem daunted as he raised both eyebrows again.

"So this is about some petty revenge?" he surmised without even blinking at Moriarty, "The death of your brother for you was too tall in the end you are even willing to risk your own life in the process?"

" _My own life?"_ James' eyes bulged and the next thing, a blow of his fist found Mycroft's head—making Sherlock shout curses at the deranged man who pace up and down the floor unsteadily and shouted— "I am the _judge_ here Mycroft Holmes— _I decide who die!"_

A trickle of blood slipped down the corner of the British government's lips but his eyes remained impervious. The intimidation seemed to get on James Moriarty's nerve that he went ahead—and beat blood out of the older Holmes while Sherlock struggled with all his might and anger and shouts—only stopping when Moriarty suddenly pulled a gun and pointed it directly on Mycroft's forehead—

"You understand this, do you?" he breathed as the prudent government official with gashes on his face eyed it.

"I most certainly do." Mycroft whispered candidly with eyes transfixed at the man, making Sherlock suddenly realize this was not the first time something like this occurred to the older Holmes. "What you say... _a brother for a brother."_

James nodded and hacked the butt of his gun on Mycroft's cheek— spilling blood on his ever white collar—

" _Stop it_ , I swear—!" Sherlock shouted in anger as he watched his brother spat blood on the floor while Moriarty stood by, seemingly waiting for another chance that made his blood coil. " _I'll kill you!"_

A gunshot—and Sherlock Holmes felt a searing pain by his left ear as a bullet missed his head by inches, making Mycroft raise his head up, his beaten face suddenly showing alertness at the sound of the gun and saw Moriarty had aimed at Sherlock with eyes his pupil dark and round.

"I'll go ahead and kill you myself, Sherlock. I could care less about you unlike my brother. _I'm not your fan."_

Silence fell between them as the thrill of facing death once again awoken all Sherlock's nerves and senses.

"Then kill me." He suggested, his own mind working furiously again and all he could think about then were two important words: _Mycroft_ and _escape._ "This was between the two of us from the very beginning. You aiming for my brother only prolonged it. Go ahead, Jim's brother. Kill me."

"We both know he won't." came Mycroft's voice that seemed to come from somewhere dark. The other two looked his way and they found him calmly looking back with blades on his eyes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and wished Mycroft would shut up. Knowing his brother well enough this was his way of mutually saying ' _Vatican Cameos'_ ; whatever was in his mind it was deadly. "Because if he does then what's the point of this entire _brother for a brother?_ Killing you, my brother, isn't as satisfying as killing me to _make his point."_

He turned to the two again with a slight smile. "After all, revenge will only be as sweet if it is inflicted the same way."

" _Mycroft!"_ Sherlock hissed, forgetting how idiotic his brother can be and watched as the insane James Moriarty took the bait and turned to older Holmes who calmly waited for his time with eyes of steel.

" _You better have a plan than getting beaten to pulp!"_ the detective muttered under his breath, eyes on his brother as he pulled on his tight binds, feeling that horror dread coming as Moriarty stopped in front of Mycroft and the unusual sensation of fixated anger towards their nemesis—something akin to the feeling of abhor.

And then it hit Sherlock like another gunshot— _what if Mycroft does not have a plan?_

 _Unlikely._ He killed the idea as fast as it came. Only that, he hoped his brother would execute it quicker before it's too late—he has no plans whatsoever of giving James Moriarty the satisfaction of winning _by losing his only brother!_

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: Playing with gun is a child's game! We need fireworks next!_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	4. The Alpha

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~IV~**

 _"_ Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life,

and you know not whether for good or ill. _'"_

\- S.W. Holmes _(The Hound of the Baskervilles)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Alpha_

* * *

A sharp sound of bottle breaking was heard around the warehouse.

"Uhh... that should hurt." Moriarty muttered to himself as he walked across the room with his hand holding a broken bottle, examining the sharp broken edges with interest that made both Mycroft and Sherlock sat at the edge of their seats. "I mean, it's pretty old fashioned and all but you can always get good effects with old bottles."

He glanced around the brothers and gave them a warm smile that heeded warning. And the older Holmes clenched his jaw as the steps of their captor turned closer his way and he just knew what was to come- a lunatic carrying a broken bottle, a gun and a wicked smile- he needn't do any math.

Struggle as he might, Sherlock knew he was doomed to watch his brother's agony unless the expected rescue came on time—and when Sherlock thought 'on time' he meant that very moment when Moriarty had so enthusiastically broken a long neck bottle and had pointed the sharp edges on Mycroft's neck.

"You're so sharp to the point of jealousy, has anyone told you that?" He grinned manically leaned down the government official, the broken bottle on one hand and the gun at the other. "Always getting the gist, the heart—the truth. With one good look you can tell implausible ideas and plans. It's incredible how my brother didn't see you as his equal... or maybe really— _he didn't. He wasn't an equal, was he?"_

"He had his highlights, yes..." the older Holmes muttered with head tilted at the proximity of the bottle. "But no, he wasn't. He was just another one of those geniuses wasted on the dry land of psychotics... unable to be nurtured because of the lack of self control."

"You mean like your brother?"

"Like my brother. Indefinitely."

"So Sherlock isn't really up to your level, is he? What is he, some stupid brother, you think? " the question came out of nowhere that made Mycroft study Moriarty awhile. Sherlock watched Moriarty too with a dawning comprehension hitting him until Mycroft broke his silence and went on—

"To some extent my brother has his _inclination_ to the powers of the brain... but as you've said: _I'm the smart one_. There was no question about that. But your brother found _my_ brother intriguing not because they are the same. It is because of how he sees the difference with them."

"What- what does that mean?" a confused look appeared on Moriarty's face, making Mycroft smirk.

"Oh, yes, you wouldn't know. For your benefit then let's make it simple: _the good and the bad._ "

A satisfied expression enlightened the man's face as he straightened and surveyed the older Holmes with Sherlock watching every inch of the bottle waving before his brother.

"That's it, isn't it? Archenemies?"

"Sadly, only _I_ am the one Sherlock considers his equal." Mycroft shifted his eyes to Sherlock who returned his gaze, "Your brother was just another piece of a life's puzzle, is all."

Silence fell and swallowed the three as Moriarty narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft sighed as he sat straight, his rigid body too numb and tuned another look at the man.

"But where will you come in that circle? _Just another brother?_ "

It was a provocative remark and Sherlock unconsciously parted his lips at the comment. It was obvious: Mycroft was digging his own grave.

"Just another brother." Moriarty repeated softly with dark eyes fixating on the older Holmes. "Yes, I'd appear like that wouldn't I? That's why when my brother got kicked out of the equation I just knew I had to take one of you two. Otherwise there'd be a tip in the scale. It's all imbalance, you understand Mr. Holmes.?"

"That is why I am your target." The British government official stated somewhat impatiently as if addressing his dull council men, "And it's all very flattering that you went ahead of yourself to execute such a plan others had been trying in futile to make—" it all happened so fast in a matter of a second as a loud cry of pain followed his statement as Moriarty's hand was quick as his smile— the sharp bottle edge found its way digging deep on Mycroft's flesh—above his left shoulder where drops of red began to flow, leaving the once white shirt almost dyed crimson.

Sherlock nearly toppled his chair—

" _Moriarty!"_ he bellowed—

Moriarty watched the effect with bliss as he stepped back with a gloating expression while beads of sweat had started to appear on the forehead of the pained expression Mycroft was making. Pale as his brother was it was nothing to the dryness and vexation the detective was feeling. And Sherlock just knew that he, like his older brother, was not a forgiving sort.

"Mycroft—" he tried to call, his head feeling light but clear as their enemy rounded behind his brother again whose head was bowed, chest heaving and with the cracked bottle still dug by his shoulder. James Moriarty then stopped in front of him and pushed Mycroft's head back using the point of his gun.

And Mycroft slightly opened his blazing eyes. Moriarty sneered.

"Don't be so presumptuous—even you nearly met your equal. I have heard about that Augustus Magnussen all right. He's a genius trying to catch you. But then your brother killed him— imagine what little brothers would do for their older brothers?"

"It's an isolated case, I assure you." Mycroft whispered weakly as he shut his eyes, "And it's not entirely about me."

"Oh it was. Did you ever ask yourself what would've happened if dear old Magnussen lived? You'd be playing cards on his hands. Just like mine. We both know you were never going to expose your brother and his flatmate to any scandals. That would have been a check mate for you, Mr. Holmes. Unless you killed the old man yourself. You plotted already, haven't you?"

Mycroft's eyes darkened as he opened them. "You're not supposed to know that."

"Sweet." Moriarty smiled. "But I'm not here to play power house like the old snake. _I'm much simpler—torture you and kill you."_ He smiled and then turned his back and oscillated on the spot, leaving Mycroft to catch Sherlock's eyes again and _meaning_ was overflowing in his eyes; but it didn't last long as Moriarty halted on his step a moment in deep thoughts; the gun in his hand being waved like it's a wand. Distracted as he was, the man turned to Sherlock whose eyes were screaming of curses.

He smirked.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? Cat caught your tongue?" he asked looking mildly amused as the detective met his eyes, letting all the wrath inside him be spoken in silent. James grinned. "Oh, I'm so sorry about your brother's shoulder—if you'd like I'll have it delivered to 221B— no?"

"Do that—and you'll never see daylight again!" he needed a gun—anything!

"Ahh, I'm getting the effects I'm after." Moriarty laughed, "The funny thing is Sherlock we haven't began anything yet, you and I. You see—it's not only shoulders or fingers or eyeballs— _I'm going to kill your brother_ and you're going to remember it for the rest of your sorry life and then you'll come after me and that's when the fun part begins."

He cackled in his laughter—so loud that made Sherlock clench his jaws and even made Mycroft frown at him behind his bruised and wounded appearance. The way he looked so calm somewhat made Sherlock raise his hopes for rescue again.

"All this trouble for your sorry brother, Jim, who was nothing but an eyesore." the older Holmes whispered then, making Sherlock sigh for his brother _really_ doesn't know when to shut up. "If you really know what happened then you should know it was your brother who wanted my brother killed. Had he succeeded in his aspiration the same chain of event would have happened only— _I will be after your brother_ and finish him myself. And _if_ that was indeed the outcome I wouldn't have gone all to this trouble. I'll simply pull the trigger right here and then."

" _Mycroft_." Sherlock compressed his lips with a sharp look at his already chalk white brother. Has the world turned upside down that it was his older brother who needs to be restrained now? _"Do shut up!" Where the hell are their rescuers?_

James made a face and shrugged. "True." He nodded. "You're so calm saying that. Mind a bullet in your head then?"

He pointed the gun but Mycroft didn't even flinch. Sherlock felt a knee jerk of wanting to stand and jump in the middle of the two but his binds wouldn't let him _do anything._

"Stop it now, brother." He whispered instead, too aware of the crimson pool on his older brother's feet.

"You better listen to Sherlock." Moriarty unexpectedly motioned the gun to the detective's way, "Because I would have appreciated it more if you had said your threat with some evil intent or passion, Mr. Holmes. But it's like you lack energy. What's eating you? Cause if you don't do it properly then let's just put a bullet in Sherlock's head?" The gun was pointed directly to Sherlock again whose eyes found the gun's hole and imagined things beyond the destruction of his brain.

 _"I kill him now and you come after me, Mr. Holmes?"_ Moriarty said in relish.

"You're starting to sound like a broken recorder as we go." With eyes flashing, Mycroft opened his thin lips. "But if you do that, you'll never leave out of this place _alive."_

"Ahh! There he is! The warlord behind the cold mask! Now I got your full attention! It's really amazing how threats can get you all that you want." He smiled back at Mycroft whose dark eyes were forbidding and meaningful.

"Oh, I think you're threatening the wrong man." Came his silent answer.

And a second next—a loud crashing sound came from the top building and shadows, agile, stealthy and too quick, followed by what seemed to be dozens of white lights came filled everything in sight; and Moriarty found a dozen red snapper bullets pointing his way coming from different direction. Mycroft's Secret Service has arrived.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as sounds of feet came scuttling around the vicinity, all men in black and with high calibre airguns ran here and there, surrounding Moriarty who raised his hand with face expressionless. Choppers seemed to survey the building as well as bright lights from the outside would flash now and again from an aerial view, revealing an almost empty can warehouse once hidden in the darkness.

It was a rescue unworthy of the highest of men, Sherlock thought bitterly. _They were still too slow!_

Mycroft was freed from his chain and the broken piece of glass of the bottle was pulled out and the first thing he did was to cover his wound with a cloth given by the medical team to stop the bleeding. He dismissed their voiced concern of treatment and threw a dark look on Moriarty's way before stepping near Sherlock, who despite calling the attention of agents around, was ignored till the older Holmes stopped in front of him.

"That should make it short, brothermine." He said and his tone made it was quite obvious that he was truly impatient during the entire episode despite his injury. "I couldn't risk our lives with some lunatic you found who knows where so I had to instruct my men to come exactly an hour and a half to this place—"

"The exact time to which you calculated both of us is still alive?" Sherlock looked up his brother angrily, his eyes falling down the red stain on the white. "Obviously you miscalculated! _You idiot!_ If they've been using gps or tracers—"

"No, no that was only a diversion, easy to be manipulated. No I knew where they kept you from the start. A simple glance on your _tragic photo_ told me as much as the location and the obvious cameras I placed upon the city recorded you getting manhandled towards this place. I told the secret service to give me time to play before they come in. Hardly difficult."

"Time to play?" The detective clenched his teeth as he struggled on his ropes, sound of a helicopter coming from the airway, " _You nearly got us killed with your stupid remarks!_ _Look at you—all bloody! How unbecoming!"_

"I could always do with a wash."

"You need more than wash! Now, for godsakes just untie me!" the detective breathed, still simmering.

The older Holmes paused, with one of his eyebrows rising doubtfully.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, I didn't think a simple rope could restrain you. Something so _easy?_ "

" _Mycroft!"_ he glared at the older brother who rolled his eyes and started untying him all the same. And Sherlock watched as Moriarty was told to kneel on the ground with hands behind him while other Secret Service ran around. But Moriarty looked simply _calm._

"Your silence says a lot." He heard Mycroft say from behind him.

"Good." Sherlock answered with narrowed eyes, "Go read it."

"No, no... I might get carried away."

"Suit yourself." The ropes fell down the ground and the brothers faced each other with Sherlock massaging his right wrist, eyes sharp at his senior who pressed a smile.

"Well, if I didn't know you better I'd say you're angry with me."

 _"I'm always angry at you._ It didn't bother you before."

"It does now. I'm sorry for jeopardizing our lives with my commentaries, but you have to understand we were dealing with a psycho. I couldn't simply leave him alone to you now when he so hates you. And you'd say the worst things, knowing you. You'll make him pull the trigger."

"That was the idea. Why do you get involve?"

"He was _our_ problem." He said simply and the two exchanged looks. "And I was avoiding you getting killed." He added.

" _Ditto._ " Sherlock muttered with another glare at his brother, seeing his own bruised face. There was a large wound already turning purple by his eyes—it was the mark of the butt of the gun that hit him. Mycroft read what he meant and shrugged as he wiped his cheeks quietly.

"Stop looking. It's as if you're smiling."

"I am."

"While grinding your teeth in anger?"

"It's my dilemma."

"But you were careless, Sherlock." The older brother went on as he cleaned his face, "for you to be lured out here, what were you thinking?"

Sherlock refrained from answering so he turned away, his eyes falling instead on Moriarty who was watching them with a broad smirk on his face. Mycroft followed his eyes and saw Moriarty's reaction too. It made him raise his eyebrows.

"Birds of same feather, I see." He muttered.

"Come on, Mycroft. For godsake, try to have a look at yourself." Sherlock turned after giving the man one last look with his brother behind him. A dozen Secret Service men were passing them with Mycroft getting his dark coat and wearing it carefully. The necktie was a bit loose so he let it dangle on his hand while Sherlock tread the path beside him.

Only until—they heard James Moriarty laugh out loud that sent chills down Sherlock's spine as he turned and shot the derange man a wary look while his older brother did the same. They found Moriarty on a standing position and leering at them with such gusto it raised alarms to everyone in the vicinity that made them point their guns in Moriarty's direction.

"Come on now, you didn't think it was the end, did you?" he asked them with a winning smirk. "I mean, if I didn't anticipate Mr. Holmes' secret service then that would make me a dupe now, wouldn't it?"

Warily, the Holmes brothers stood side by side with severe frowns on their faces. Sherlock particularly stepped forward, unable to conceal his excitement now that he was on his feet.

"And what exactly do you plan to do with all the government's men here with guns pointed at you?" he asked.

"What would you do?" Moriarty responded gloatingly as his eyes went from Sherlock to Mycroft. "Simple: Take down the Alpha."

The words haven't been out of his lips when a red sound beeped inside Mycroft's overcoat chest pocket.

And when the brothers looked down they saw that a bright red light was blinking inside the older Holmes' chest, right about his heart.

A bomb had been installed inside his overcoat.

"Don't you just love a bit of firework?" James Moriarty offered with a smile. "It's my brother's taste, see? I hope you don't mind me using it but then, he'd always say Mr. Holmes was a cold person without a heart. Fancy trying to know if it's true, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were on his brother who look mildly surprised at his own predicament.

"You and these deranged people, Sherlock, would be the death of me." Mycroft whispered ironically as he exchange looks with his brother. _"_ 'But I really saw this one coming... just... _a bad slip,_ wouldn't you say, brothermine?"

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: Where's John when you need him? xD_

 _Explosions and lots of running and gunning next~_

 _Robert Downey's best at that, don't you think?_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	5. The Order

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~V~**

 _"The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning."_

\- S.W. Holmes _(The Sign of the Four)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Order_

* * *

 _"Come let's have it. What's your government's verdict?"_

 _Sherlock said rather nonchalantly to his older brother as he found himself contained in one of Britain's highest security prison three days after the event at Appledore with one businessman Charles Augustus Magnussen that caused stir among the powerful folks of the country who were pressurized by the silent scoundrel._

 _Sherlock was seated by an empty table, wearing a pure white shirt, free hands together on the table, eyes droopy but with the still visible acuteness deep within his gaze; his older brother Mycroft was seated across him in his dark coat, three piece tie that never left him and almost the same blank expression on his face. The Holmes brothers were alone in the vicinity upon Mr. Holmes' request where not even personal guards were allowed intrusion._

 _"It's not my government." Mycroft corrected with a slight frown on his face, "I merely give suggestions to the rulings and laws and few national decisions and they accept it. They gave me a position unique for my abilities—something which you could have done as well had you only—"_

 _"Not interested." The consulting detective met his brother's eyes and repeated. "Just answer. What would it be for me?"_

 _Mycroft paused with his lips thinning; his eyes never wavered away from his brother—too obvious sign of someone weighing his words as he went on—_

 _"You killed a person, Sherlock." He said slowly and carefully with eyes observing his junior, "There's no going around against that."_

 _"I don't plan to." The detective replied smoothly but his distraction was shown as he suddenly gripped both his hands. "Just tell me what it is that will happen after this. You wouldn't be here to discuss something I already know. It's been exactly three days. You did something; you always do."_

 _Mycroft smiled. "Thank you for that vote of confidence you barely acknowledge— had you done that before all this and trusted me you wouldn't have found yourself here—" Sherlock threw him a look and was about to open his lips impatiently when the government official went on, "— and yes, I did something on your behalf but it's not something I myself look forward to saying. But if it is only to set you free—"_

 _He hesitated. Sherlock saw that and raised his brows._

 _"What?"_

 _"Exile." The older Holmes breathed finally with a lost look in his eyes. "To Eastern Europe. MI6."_

 _"Ah."_

 _Silence fell between them. Mycroft cleared his throat and sat straight with eyes lifeless for a moment while the detective was silent, too deep set in his own thoughts._

 _"I already told you the dangers of the job, Sherlock." The older Holmes' voice was too gentle as their eyes met again. "I beg you not to do anything that may endanger your life further. You don't want a repeat of the Serbian holiday."_

 _"Its exile what do you think it is—an expedition?" the detective snapped and eyed his brother. "Maybe if you had worked harder and didn't let your impartiality get the best of you I'd have myself in Hawaii. Or maybe even a pardon knowing how I got rid of everyone's common enemy?" He smirked but it disappeared completely upon the solemn look on his brother's face who apparently had no desire to play around._

 _"That's that then." Mycroft leaned back, his shoulders slightly sagging, eyes blank. "And we're back just right where we started."_

 _Sherlock pressed his lips closed and knew exactly where his brother's mind had drifted. It reminded him of his days in Serbia too._

 _"That's that." The detective repeated quietly._

 _But then Mycroft flashed him a look and this time, another fire was ignited._

 _"I told you Magnussen was not your business—"_

 _"This again—" he swore-_

 _"You knew you've lost the game the moment he got the upper hand with Mrs. Watson—"_

 _"Mycroft—"_

 _"—still you risked it."_

 _Sherlock gritted his teeth as his brother's eyes didn't leave him; there was no other choice but to look away._

 _"You can't expect me to do nothing when John got involve in our problem."_

 _"'Our problem', Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired that made Sherlock click his tongue impatiently._

 _"You knew Magnussen wanted you and when it involves you it usually involves me. Why am I explaining?"_

 _"I understand the logic... but then there's the episode of your trade with him and correct me if I'm wrong but I seem to understand you deciding to use me as bait in exchange of the Watsons?"_

 _"Who else could protect them?"_

 _Mycroft raised his eyebrows to heaven. "And so you gave me away—"_

 _The detective licked his lips, shook his head and sighed._

 _"Stop it, Mycroft. We both know you knew what was coming."_

 _"Well, I had hoped at least that you'd consider before discarding your own brother."_

 _"Discarding—? Don't be dramatic! We both know you can take care of yourself! You're Mycroft!"_

 _"Again," Mycroft's smile was devilish as his eyes flashed. "another vote of confidence. Thank you and yes, indeed I am. You'd do well to remember that."_

* * *

Moriarty's body was flooded with red dots of lasers all coming from different directions, heights and proficient hands surrounding the warehouse; Mycroft only has one right upon the chest on the other. _It made all the difference._

Red lights continued to flood their visions as the warehouse fell silent, seemingly waiting for the next chess piece to be moved now that a _checkmate_ was established. Sherlock's eyes were too intent on his brother's coat, his brain racking of possibilities to remove it that all he could do was to stare blankly on the blinking dot and think of just _pulling it away_.

Mycroft had both eyebrows raised and looking quite amused at the expressions his younger brother had been making.

"I beg you not to try the latter and yank the bomb off." He suddenly said as if following the trail of thoughts Sherlock had been deciding. "That'd be a _catastrophe."_

The detective shot him an annoyed look. "You got better ideas?"

"Always do." Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he inhaled and sighed with eyebrow rising. "I feel it—nothing big but more like clipped—"

"I won't try anything funny if I was you," Moriarty's voice reminded the brothers of his presence and almost automatically both men turned their eyes to him, "You see, triggers are called triggers because they get triggered. We don't want all of these gentlemen of your powerful government to be sacrificial lambs tonight now do we? Mr. Holmes?"

"I'll have you know that no one in the Secret Service is unprepared to any casualties." Mycroft remarked, moving freely as he stepped forward, undaunted of his possible destruction with chin up and eyes steeled. Sherlock followed his steps carefully, eyes on Moriarty as well. "Not even myself."

The armed men all held Moriarty with their guns in silence while the smile on his face turned upside down upon seeing the man he was threatening not particularly bothered of _exploding away._ And almost automatically, sounds of metals filled the air and red dots went simultaneously on Moriarty's forehead.

Mycroft's expression was firm resolute.

" _Mountains_ do not bow, huh?" Moriarty grinned in malice as his eyes reflected the red lasers. "Oh, sure I forgot—you lot are the kind who jumps into the bomb to save everyone else's pants, aren't you?" James inclined his head to his right, dark eyes boring on the head of the Secret Service, "That's typically how you lot train, eh? I've seen numbers of that you know—throw them a treat and like ducks everybody's jumping towards it—all too willing to sacrifice never mind the next day. My brother will have a field day in hell."

"I do not think we need to resort to that kind of destruction." The older Holmes quietly. Sherlock quickly shifted his eyes to his brother and then watched as Moriarty nodded in agreement.

"I concur... so then isn't it obvious what you should do? I mean—the one to jump on the bomb has already been chosen so what are we waiting for?"

The brothers stood rigid.

"I'd like to ask you the same." the government head said, "What do we do with this game?"

"Pull out your men so we can have a bit of fresh air. And this." Moriarty smiled and motioned his head at his back, pertaining to the cuffs that had been placed on his wrists behind him. Mycroft took his time in deciding, before finally nodding to one of his men who ran towards Moriarty to free him. The older Holmes then waved his right hand and like a switch, all lasers were turned off but nobody left the vicinity.

And Sherlock took the cue and stepped behind his brother.

"What are you doing—?" he hissed.

"Things will be colossally complex after this, brother." the older Holmes whispered without taking his eyes off the villain who massaged his free hands with glee, "My calculations are telling me casualties can only be lessened if—"

"Shoot him." Sherlock insisted with lips dry, "Go ahead. We both know he's planning to kill us, Mycroft—there's no point letting him get the edge with this! He won't stop until we're dead— _end it right here and now!_ "

"You're not listening." Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth, "We kill him and we're all dead. Pointless. Above and beyond that you heard him. It's obvious he's ready for a deal."

Sherlock and Mycroft both averted their eyes to James Moriarty again who had been watching them for some time now.

"I don't _do deals._ " The younger Holmes said with jaw clenching.

"No, you don't." The older Holmes agreed quietly. " _We're not brothers for nothing."_

Sherlock snorted but when Moriarty's eyes fell on him, the detective's instincts screamed of danger that made him straighten his body and to almost step near his older brother again, just to assure himself and whispered on Mycroft's ear once more.

"We're not dying today, Mycroft."

The government official gave a slight nod, eyes straight to their enemy.

"I hear you." He whispered but not long after he said those words did they hear the sound of air guns being clicked and voices of his men around shouting in warning—looking up the brothers saw it was because Moriarty had leaned down to pick up the broken bottle he used on Mycroft where blood was still seen.

"This isn't working for me." James muttered to himself with a heavy sigh as he waved the junky bottle and threw it away with a loud crashing sound; all eyes were on him with hushed silence falling in the world. Moriarty travelled his eyes at them and then down to his once again laser spotted body and shook his head. "I must say I am impressed by how you take me seriously, Mr. Holmes. Am really glad." He raised his eyes to Mycroft.

"I do not take your kind lightly." The older Holmes said simply, eyes narrowing as he ordered for the aim to stop with only a finger. "It's better to be cautious than sacrifice."

"Brother Jim did a good job on you both then, he'll be very pleased with his legacy." he shrugged as stood on his spot while making faces at Sherlock, "All of us with perfect plans A and B, right Mr. Holmes? But in the end I still get the ticket out—you just have to tinker a bit with the alpha and all the dogs will quiet down. It must leave a nasty taste on their mouths, huh? Being beaten?"

He turned at the number of dark suited Secret service men and smirked at them again. There was an apparent elation in his eyes as he looked up at the light of the helicopter above and smiled.

"Do you always carry one or two of those? Really impressive for tonight's work—makes me feel so tiny oooohh... Well then, I don't like crowded places and let's face it—this place is already compromised so let say we call it a day? Time to make my exit and oh—" he turned to the Holmes brothers unceremoniously, "You both are coming."

Sherlock followed Moriarty with his eyes as the man turned and raised a hand, signalling both brothers to follow towards the exit of the warehouse where a number of Secret Service were still standing in wait—

Until they raised their guns and pointed at Moriarty again who halted in mild surprise.

"I don't think that's possible." came Mycroft's voice that made Sherlock turn to him. He found his older brother standing in his full height with a very serious look on his already pale face. Looking closer, the younger Holmes frowned upon tracing the root of his discomfort. His bloody shoulder.

"I'm sorry?" James turned back with contorted eyebrows only to find the red lasers back on the spot of his body again that made him laugh out loud and threw the government official a look. "W-what does this mean? You're not up to the bargain?"

"Use your head, I don't see any bargain." Mycroft snapped, rather irritably and by then Sherlock was sure his brother was in pain, "You had me with your little toy but I also have you right where I want you with my army. You can't expect to get everything you want out of this one. Besides—" he raised his head again, in that superior manner that almost made Sherlock smirk for it was another sign—his brother was taking control— _finally. "—_ my men have specific 'orders' and by no means are they going to abandon that be it for any reason or they engage. Not even for myself."

The detective raised his eyes to the Secret Service personnel with their air guns and knew his brother was serious. Whatever _order_ this men were given, they were unlikely to desert it, given the fact that it was _Mycroft Holmes_ who command it. The man's word was written on _stone._ Sherlock smiled. Now this was the action he was waiting for.

Moriarty stood there, immobile by Mycroft's words that he stared at him with gaping mouth. He travelled his eyes to the British Secret Service again and saw no hint of any guns pointing down. It was truly a lock down.

"So in the end, we all get to be blown up?" Moriarty asked, eyeing the Holmes brothers again.

"Not a suicidal maniac like your brother now, are you?" Sherlock pressed on with an eyebrow rising as he stepped back till he was shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Moriarty glowered.

"Then we all die." He whispered with savour. "I'll take as many of your men as I can and no one will survive—"

"If only you don't _think."_ Mycroft offered in a challenging manner that made Sherlock glance at him again while Moriarty stared with eyes narrowing at the seemingly scheming older Holmes.

"Huh..." he inclined his head on the side, eyes full on the British government official. "So just what is this _order_ you seem to want me to consider?"

Mycroft smiled. "Nothing complicated, I assure you. Just _retrieve Sherlock Holmes alive._ "

Sherlock let that sink in quietly, and then stared at his brother with mixture of emotions in his expressive eyes: surprise, disbelief, followed by confusion at its underlying meaning.

"Mycroft—?" he began—

"Oh?" Moriarty nodded slowly, eyes on Mycroft and then to the agents surrounding the area, "Retrieving Sherlock Holmes? And that's _all_?"

"The longest order I gave," the older Holmes went on casually, "usually it's a one word liner like 'engage' or 'fire' or 'execute'—you get the idea. But then, like I told you if you let my _order_ , I guarantee you can step away from this hall—and meet with my brother again to continue you're uh... how was it called? Unfinished business? You said it yourself—you never meant to end him today so I _think_ we all can agree on that."

Silence fell as Moriarty and Mycroft weighed each other's gaze—seemingly still trying to intimidate like fire and ice trying to better the other—and one _getting swallowed—_ till Sherlock rounded on his brother somewhat nonplussed.

"What's this?"

" _Go Sherlock_." Mycroft said through gritted teeth as if encouraging him to fly with open arms towards the Secret Service—

" _Have you lost your mind_!?" the detective spat in anger that made the older Holmes sigh in exasperation.

"That's it huh?" Moriarty raised his hands with a laugh at Mycroft, "And here I was thinking you didn't understand what I meant by balance. Splendid tactic you have there, Mr. Holmes. Go on then, take Sherlock in the name of the order. We all know we'll meet again."

"Oh you will." Mycroft assured him just as Moriarty gave him a pointed look—

"Come along then, Mr. Holmes, this has gotten quite dull—"

Sherlock reacted fast as he stepped in front of his brother with eyes lashing at Moriarty.

"You're not taking him!" he insisted as his mind cracked at this turn of events his logic could not comprehend, "Take me!"

James smiled wickedly and shook his head. "Oh, I would, but orders are orders, Sherlock. And I don't have any use of you at the moment. And weren't you listening to your brother? _It's an_ order, you idiot. It's already a deal. You're not even my target so let's save that for another day— don't be so eager for death, Sherlock. It'll come soon just let me put balance where it's due all right? Or do you prefer we all just— _blow up_?"

"If it saves us the trouble—" the detective grinded his teeth—

"Leave it, Sherlock." Mycroft said from behind his brother, "Out of the way."

Sherlock nearly snapped his head as he turned a look at his older brother who wasn't even looking his way anymore as he stepped in front of the line, almost walking pass the detective who caught his arm and gripped him back. The bomb continued to blink deep in his coat pocket but this wasn't the reason why the detective angrily held his brother tight.

"You're not going." He said through compressed lips, eyes round and dark, his clutch shaking in what seemed to be pure rage. Mycroft stood still, head not looking back. " _Why are you even doing this?"_

"I'm following my own orders—"

"Stop playing around! I don't care—"

" _My order as your brother,_ Sherlock. Now let go."

"I let you go and you die."

"Get a grip brother," Mycroft finally looked at him with indifference in his eyes that Sherlock had so often seen whenever his brother was masking his true feelings, "your _sentiments_... all scattered around. You don't want him to get that satisfaction, do you?"

"What—and watch him kill you?" Sherlock gritted his teeth as he met his brother's eyes. _"Don't be naive—not now! We're talking about our lives! He wants to kill you—he wants you dead, don't you understand!?"_

"You don't let go now and we're both dead." Mycroft reached a hand and forcefully made his younger brother to free him, before looking towards Moriarty again who was watching them carefully. "Take it as his Christmas present now before he changes his mind—"

" _Mycroft—!"_

"Sherlock," the older Holmes glanced at him fiercely, "you understand the situation—"

"I really don't—!"

Mycroft then suddenly grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pulled him close, their noses almost making contact with both jaws clenching, eyes glinting daggers as they exchange looks.

"I need your vote of confidence now, brother. This is not a favor. It's an _order_." Mycroft's eyes darkened. " _Leave."_

He freed away from the detective who stood undecided for a second just as Mycroft waved his hand and running feet of his men were heard—all heading towards Sherlock Holmes. Whatever John thinks about Mycroft and his governmental powers, he, Sherlock, knew the meaning once his brother gives the 'order' between them. His older brother knew how much Sherlock hates it and uses it less between them if he could help it.

Only desperate occasions would make Mycroft call it. And now he did.

Now all Sherlock could do was muster his anger as he watch his brother walk towards his doom. The Secret Service men were all drawing closer to him and only him. Mycroft's word was too powerful.

Except that, he Sherlock, was never one to _follow_ it.

Moriarty turned his back and had started walking away as if waltzing in front of dozen Secret Services armed men was the easiest thing to do. "Come on now, Mr. Holmes, it'll be fun." He called back, his steps echoing in the silent arena.

Echoing deep in Sherlock's ear as he understood the meaning of each step taken—and the disappearing back of his brother that would be gone forever—making his eyes flare.

"For god's sake, Mycroft you and your army." He called back, making Mycroft stop on his tracks and for Moriarty to turn to him while the Secret Service force halted their steps towards the detective for one particular reason—

Sherlock Holmes raised his hand—holding what appeared to be like a rectangular chip with red blinking lights—the explosive that which he took from his brother while they were in close proximity, its blinking red light a beacon of triumph on his dark eyes.

And its timer blinking in 3- 2...

His action got the best of him and before he knew it he had suddenly turned on his heels as he threw the bomb up to the ceiling— Moriarty caught surprise but still smiling as he saw his firework go up the sky— and the secret service men running around and shouting as the red button activated as a loud beeping sound was heard—and everything exploded within sight.

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: Mycroft is a genius! Moriarty derange!_

 _SHERLOCK IS BOTH ;)_

 _More action to follow~ two chapters to go?_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	6. The Fugitive

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~VI~**

 _"Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell."_

\- S.W. Holmes _(The Copper Beeches)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Fugitive_

* * *

Numbness filled him. And dark. It was dark. And _heavy._

There was a terrible weight on his chest that made breathing difficult, let alone fight for consciousness. He was dying—or was he dead? Wouldn't it be much better to be dead?

 _Then pain._

His ears were ringing—like a broken microphone were stuffed in them; his senses all in bits and could not make out of anything. He was lost. So he concentrated on that one particular area he needed to fix— _breathing._ His lungs were on fire for the lack of air and so he unconsciously did his best to intake a lungful—making his senses jolt back and to start working.

And it all came hurtling to his mind—everything that had happened.

Trying hard to catch his breath, he realized his eyes were shut and upon opening them saw only white and grey smokes—a dull ache on his head, the sear of pain all around his body and the nonstop drumming on his ears told him that he was pretty much alive.

Only just—with a large chunk of the warehouse's metal plate collapsed on his chest, trapping him. He blinked several times to focus the blur image and saw light and heard awfully ear tearing sounds that seemed to crack his brain—it was the helicopters hovering around the destroyed warehouse with its bright search light rounding the area. The explosion obviously did a great damage with half the ceiling gone as Sherlock lay on his back.

He delayed his reactions as it all came back to him. Urgent. His brain was urging him to be urgent.

The incoming shouts of men here and there told him he wasn't the only one alive— but then how many didn't survive?

"Mycroft?" he choked as he struggled under the weight, his mind clearing. " _Mycroft!?"_

He tried to push the block but it was futile. His arms were bloody but functioning. It took him another five minute to feel his legs—he could move his toes— that should be a good sign.

"Dammit..." he cursed as struggled under the weight to no avail, his eyes searching on all sides, _"Mycroft!"_

"Here, I'm here... I got you." A voice whispered somewhere and the next second his older brother was standing by him; Mycroft Holmes looked worse for wear as Sherlock's eyes fell on him with dust all over his clothes—overcoat already gone—scratches on his skin and his shoulder injury tied in white linen—a fresh gash on his bleeding head—but all the same he was intact. His face was colourless but there was that ever steel look in his eyes that had never disappeared since the beginning of their ordeal that which Sherlock found comforting. Mycroft Holmes _does not know fear_. He couldn't afford it, not with his _job._

But then Mycroft found his gaze and for a second his older brother fell silent—and was that the trick of the light or did the firm look in his eyes suddenly faltered?

Sherlock tightened his lips as Mycroft blinked and shook his head.

"Good lord, Sherlock..." he murmured weakly as he started removing the pieces of the metal plate he could carry with both arms. "good lord...What you just did...Jesus... you really have no sense of self preservation you... are you alright?"

He looked older than before as he leaned down and stare at the younger brother who flushed at the question.

"I'm fine. You?" he couldn't quite meet his brother's eyes.

"Nothing that needs critical attention." He sighed again and straightened—the moment he did the reflection of daggers in his eyes returned as he collected his old self and said rather bitterly—"You put a lot of lives in peril tonight, Sherlock. Once again you thwarted protocol."

"Protocol, what protocol?" the detective muttered as he tried to snake away from his burden. "If you mean agreeing with your enemy's trap is protocol then I'd overthrow your government anytime."

" _You just did—"_ Mycroft's voice was icy-

"I was trying to protect you!" Sherlock snapped, moving his body when he felt the weight lifting. "I was doing the nation a favour so at least say 'thank you', _brother_!"

"That's my job." Mycroft retorted almost with the same derision as he straightened when the younger Holmes was able to set himself free and stand up, feeling his legs and deciding them functional despite the many cuts and bruises over his limbs.

"Well then you realise again I'm not a team player." The detective throw a narrowed look towards his brother, his mind refreshing the conversation they had earlier and reeling angrily at the memory for what his brother had nearly done. "And so are you, you—you manipulative—"

"Be careful with your words." Mycroft warned darkly that made Sherlock press his lips in contempt and glower. "With everything done here I'm afraid we have to make sure it's not for nothing _._ "

He looked around his men who were already emerging from the dust and smokes, his eyes resuming its cold and calculating gaze while Sherlock gingerly tried to brush the dust on his coat and removing it altogether, making a mental note to make his brother pay for every last fibre of it. There he noticed a long open cut on his right arm that made him curse.

"We need to get you out of here." Mycroft suddenly said beside him that made Sherlock frown automatically. "My men are counting any possible casualties and are already searching for Moriarty's remains—if god be good— they'll find him done with together with his merry band of terrorists hiding from the surface. If not... well, we just need you out of here, Sherlock do you quite understand?"

"WE _,"_ the detective insisted, _"we_ need to get out of here. What are you planning to stay back at this wreckage for? Going to check for Martian signatures?"

To the detective's surprise, the older Holmes gave him a wry smile but refused to elaborate more as he rummage through his pants and even his already worn white sleeves full of his own blood stain with eyebrows raising in annoyance.

"Wallet, wallet—they took my wallet— _dammit."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We're in a pinch and you're looking for your wallet. What's it contain—your life insurance?"

"Be quiet."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in turn and at the same time took out a small phone that came out of nowhere. Sherlock breathed again, feeling the pain in his chest and tried to lick his dry lips. He travelled his eyes at the outcome of his little experiment and saw a lot of the Secret Service men all running around again, waving their arms and calling aids—obviously now in control unlike before. There were injured, even unconscious. Sherlock felt his lips dry. Ambulances were already around that made the detective think his brother was really prepared for any outcomes. If possible—and there was a hundred percent chance of it—Mycroft might have been expecting the same result—what with the obvious garment of the Secret Service men he finally noticed in the light. All of them were carrying bomb protective shields—even their clothes and head gear looked formidable.

And Sherlock knew that Mycroft really didn't take chances with Moriarty.

Mycroft was already talking to his phone while the detective glance at him, noticing the large spot of red on his shoulder and frowning at it more. The older Holmes glance at him briefly, phone still on his ear and gave him a pressing look to which Sherlock responded by ignoring him and watching the men again. His eyes travelled to the place where he thought Moriarty must have been buried and saw the Secret Service already on it.

There was no sign of anyone emerging.

"— _June advance."_ He suddenly heard Mycroft say that made the detective shot his older brother a look. Mycroft had his back turned as he talked, giving Sherlock a full view of his bleeding back. His mind snapped of questions and information but it was all washed out as he saw a number of tiny holes from shred of broken glasses puncturing that ever astute figure of his brother.

"Mycroft!" he snarled, pulling his brother by the arm who turned in surprise, "Your back—"

"I know, I know, I don't need to see it." The older Holmes put his phone away with a quick look to his brother before moving away, almost indicating the detective to follow. "Let's get out of here, Sherlock. Before you decide to blow us all away again."

"Don't try to be funny. I just did."

"Think it's clever?"

"Do what you did and I'd do it again."

That shut Mycroft up.

The Holmes brothers walked around the rubble with some of the Secret Service medics joining their side and handing them clean blankets to wrap about them—that which only fell on their arms—mutually agreeing that unneeded attention to both welfare and insisted the force focus on the real injured ones—except Sherlock had other plans.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft called in exasperation.

"Any casualties?" Sherlock went on quietly as he stood beside his brother after deliberately walking away from the older Holmes towards an open ambulance, where then Mycroft followed and was forced to be checked on Sherlock's insistence. The older Holmes blatantly refused at first, scolding them off for not having the time—until the detective sighed and initiated with his arm injury that's been stinging him for some time.

Only then did Mycroft grudgingly allowed his own check, thus rendering both Holmes under the care of the medical team all the same.

"A dozen to be exact. Minor injuries." The British government head answered with a flat stare on his eyes as his shoulder injury was cleaned and remedied with first aid. He refused the full body test out with another glare at the medic who then handed him a clean change of clothes while the Secret service head frowned at his brother. "Let's stop dilly dallying and get out of here. We can have all the body check we can have in London but for now, let's leave. The sooner we can leave, the better I can breathe air."

Sherlock didn't respond as he eyed his brother, his mind palace pulling him.

Something was _wrong_. _Deadly wrong._

He then traveled his eyes to everyone else. The Secret Service was lingering about the wreckage, arms loaded and searching. They were _so few._ He turned a look to those inside the other ambulance and knew his math wasn't doing him justice. The men were searching the grounds, obviously... but in such number and lengths? Moriarty couldn't have disappeared that far. Sherlock then took steps forward, the whole scenario building in his brain, his mind palace unfailing its prowess in logic it was known.

The simple crime was done but the response was not logical. A massive response was not logical.

What was that... his instincts were against everything?

"Mycroft..." he started when he turned back at his brother with a blank look, " _Where's your secretary?_ "

The older Holmes stopped, the sudden question seemingly overwhelming him. But that was a misconception for Mycroft Holmes was never _overwhelmed—_ only _exposed_ in his schemes. He could have answered easily—but Mycroft was never one good at lying—in the first place he was ever the most straight forward person Sherlock knew—scheming yes, but _never a good liar._

The brothers eyed each other, until Sherlock saw that gleam of confidence fill his brother's eyes.

"Just catching up now, are you?" he said as he stood up, pulled on the clean clothes with his injured arm in bandaged now wrapped by his neck and stood straight with chin a little raise. "Thought you'd never get there. Let's go."

"When are you planning to explain to me what's going on?" Sherlock berated as he unwillingly set of after his brother walking ahead of him. "Mycroft—dammit!"

"That depends on how much you know already?" the older Holmes said as he directed their way towards a waiting helicopter meters away from them, "Otherwise I'm not planning to explain something trivial when we don't have the safeguard of any walls."

Sherlock felt that loud jump of his heartbeat— his mind palace flashing information that was ever at the corner of his brain. The puzzle was too quick—all falling in line even before he can understand it... all falling in pieces. Logic was falling, breaking... and all Sherlock could do was turn to his brother.

His brother - who was ever the most unnerving Freudian slipper of all time.

And his suspicions began with that one particular slip— _June advance._

Sherlock's mind reeled of its meaning.

A term for tactics. Brusilov Attack— _the most lethal offensive in world history during the warring times of World War I._

In short—Mycroft _brought an infantry designed to hunt and take offense—_ with the latter still to come— _but why?_

The absolute silence and absence of his secretary, _who was always around when convenient,_ also indicated danger. Mycroft, cold as they believe he is to other people, would never expose an innocent person to any forbidding danger. Therefore someone dangerous was expected to be around them. Was it Moriarty? _Only Moriarty?_

"No matter how power obsessed you are and how much of a show off you've become it's still unthinkable for you to command an entire fleet just to capture one man." Sherlock said in one breathing as the brothers face each other again after reaching the helicopter. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Unless... there's more?"

Mycroft pressed his thin lips closed and didn't say anything but it was more than enough. Sherlock's eyes flashed as his mind reeled again— who else could be so dangerous, who else could make his brother feel threatened?

"Get in." Mycroft said as he opened the helicopter door, eyes on his brother.

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"We, _our lives_ are in danger— and still _the_ Mycroft Holmes is working for the Queen!"

"You're slipping." The older Holmes commented quietly as he waited for Sherlock to step in, quite adamantly, "Go get inside and try again."

Sherlock did and dropped himself on the helicopter chair while Mycroft lingered by the door.

"Do you really think I believed for a second the balance scale that lunatic kept on flaunting on my face? That by some miracle my death will be sufficient and that _I_ would acknowledge it? No, Sherlock, death has never been an option for me on this one. Not with all _your_ enemies coming around and about and working together."

Sherlock shot his brother a look and saw complete seriousness in those blue eyes.

"Who else is involved?"

"Who do you think?"

"Somebody with motive..."

"Who else comes to mind...?"

There was a brief pause and Sherlock's eyes lit up in understanding.

Why else would his brother prefer him to be hidden away in the safety of four walls that was impenetrable by any unwanted air gun bullets? And who has the means to such an assassination?

" _Moran."_ He breathed, his eyes locking with his older brother, " _Sebastian Moran is here."_

Mycroft's eyes flashed.

"Moran's an international terrorist nowadays, Sherlock. He's mainly involved with the bombings under Al-Qaeda. Recently, I've received reports of this fugitive's appearance back in London. When the message of your abduction was sent to me I knew at once he was involved. You should really see your tragic photo, Sherlock, his gun on your head was quite conspicuous. Knowing he's around I had to call reinforcement. You know how we deal with ex-soldiers, Sherlock. He is dangerous, much more dangerous than this Moriarty who plays with his food before devouring them—idly wasting time. Moran isn't like that—he wants exact revenge. He wants it done quickly to the person who robbed him of his loyal master, _Jim Moriarty_. How James Moriarty managed to convince him to kill me first is beyond me."

"I doubt it."

"He wants you dead, Sherlock. He was only playing with Moriarty."

"Everyone wants me dead." Muttered the detective, making the older Holmes clench his jaw.

"He is serious. Now that James Moriarty's plan is spoiled he'll do any means to get you."

"You don't think Moriarty's plan to kill you is serious then?" his older brother has been shrugging away threats to himself—?

"I don't take him lightly," Mycroft repeated, obviously reading Sherlock's thoughts, "but he is _naive_ and that's why I'm still alive. We're talking about you, Sherlock. Those two have been working together, didn't you see their pattern?"

" _Obviously, he didn't."_

The familiar voice that jumped out of nowhere both surprised Sherlock and Mycroft—and then there like the bringer of _death_ himself—standing with a gun at hand and pointing at Mycroft's head, was James Moriarty in flesh and blood— _real blood_ on his face. He was also worse for wear, with a lumpy looking arm that seemed broken but it didn't seem to deter his purpose as he eyed the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat again as he sat straight—alert at unexpectedly seeing Moriarty alive and armed with that ever winning smile on his face. What the hell was the Secret Service doing?

"Just like old times, huh?" Moriarty said, his eyes travelling to Sherlock who was watching his gun warily, knowing his brother was once again at the mercy of an enemy. Mycroft looked blankly at James Moriarty for awhile, obviously caught unaware— "I admit things are getting exciting as we speak, don't you boys feel the thrill?"

"You..." Mycroft stood straight as he braced himself while Moriarty chuckled.

"And I bet you didn't see this one coming." He inclined his head towards the pilot who looked back revealing—

 _Sebastian Moran._

Sherlock gaped with all his instincts rising to recognise danger. Mycroft's eyes widened at the recognition and almost simultaneously the Holmes brothers exchange looks. And the looks they gave each other were both mutual.

There was only one thing to do.

"Get in, Mr. Holmes. We're heading towards the much awaited climax." Moriarty said as he grabbed Mycroft by the back collar and threw him beside his younger brother. "I'm one step ahead of you, did you just notice?"

Once the door was shut and the helicopter on the move, Moriarty laughed out loud, gun still pointed at the silent brothers and spoke animatedly as if this was his most memorable chatting moment.

"I enjoyed that bit with the flashing bombs," he started with obvious glee in his voice, "I didn't expect Sherlock to be quite desperate to save his brother. Which makes me itch to pull this trigger."

He pressed the gun on Mycroft's forehead whose unhappy face was quite clear between clenched jaws.

"I applaud you." The older Holmes suddenly went on as he straightened, "I didn't expect this kind of bold getaway— _with my own equipment_ you pulled the strings. What a slap in the face."

"Oh you shouldn't feel so shameful." James smirked, eyes wallowing brightly as he eyed the British head, "not for long since I'll end you. No regrets right? Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He was busy leaving a tap _Morse_ code on his brother's arm—the advantage of being pressed so closed together. And Mycroft isn't giving them away either and the message went on like this:

 _Fly. Go. Down. Now._

Above the night sky, an aeroplane noise was heard in the middle of nowhere.

Then it swayed—from left to right till it was almost toppling side to side dangerously, its direction zooming down in speed till its bottom crashed on the nearby trees.

It was fated to go down and as it did—two gunshots were heard in the silence. And the helicopter crashed on the ground, bringing with it the passengers and the pilot that set the darkened forest ablaze.

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: Where do we pick up from here?_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	7. The Machiavellian

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~VII~**

 _"This is serious, Watson. There is some devilry going forward!"_

\- S.W. Holmes _(The Red Circle)_

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Machiavellian_

* * *

Amidst the dark sky blazed fire from the plane crash that coloured everything crimson.

Thick black smoke hovered in the night air, filling the skies with its cloudy grey tint, accenting the red glow underneath where the object of its core burned. The helicopter was quite in shape, having fallen not so high, and the trees cushioning its weight with its branches, but not enough to stop its tragic crash. It landed on ground like a crane dropping a heavy metal bar with a loud thud and dent on the earth where it laid still.

There were no movements from the inside, only the dancing and cackling fire that continued to eat the flammables and break the remaining glasses apart, its windows already shattered from the fall.

A second passed in the stillness of the earth and then—there was a cough— _consecutive coughing._

Another split second next and then there was a sound of fist pounding on metal. It went on for a few seconds—loud at first, then slowly becoming weak. Then it stopped.

The next thing— the metal door was kicked open and then a foot stepped out, followed by another. The movement was arduous for the man was half carrying, half dragging another man's weight. He succeeded in pulling both of them out to the ground and then proceeded with the act with great efforts till they were some distance from the heat of the incident.

Both men were bloody and injured; the tall man pulling the other on his shoulder had a burned arm stinging, his open cuts bleeding unstoppably already blending with his sweat; but the man he was carrying was in far worst condition with his head dangling askew on his shoulders, his dark curly hair singed and soaked from his own blood gushing down his forehead.

And Mycroft Holmes dropped his brother gently down a tree stump distance away from the blazing fire and straightened him carefully before raising a firm but cold finger down his neck— _was it too late?_

His brother's skin felt clammy—yet there was a pulse. A weak one— _but still alive._

Mycroft pulled himself together and squared his jaw as he checked his brother's pupils and head injury all the while trying to rouse him. Despite his own blurry sight, he could still identify if the injury was fatal— Sherlock knocked his head pretty badly on something hard—metal leaving a large swelling lump on the scalp that split with what appeared to be another bump. He tried to feel the skull and if there were any fractures or injuries for what else was there to do but to do a first thorough check up? It was a closed head injury— c _oncussion_ was unavoidable. Mycroft gritted his teeth and looked down at the man, reaching a palm and tapping his brother's cheek.

"Sherlock, wake up..." he whispered, his lips dry. "Wake, up brother... Sherlock... _Sherlock!_ "

An eternity of silence and then...

Sherlock stirred his head with a slight moan. Upon seeing the reaction the older Holmes didn't waste time as he fumbled through Sherlock's left shoulder injury next where a fresh wound was bleeding incessantly. Out of the two shots Moriarty fired—one bullet grazed his younger brother—a fact that made Mycroft felt icy despite the surrounding fire. He remembered how his brother had jumped on Moriarty's gun—how he on his part tackled Moran around the neck—he knew it was dangerous but what else could he do when his brother was determined to dissuade another abduction where—in the older Holmes' concrete belief—was the end for them both?

But it was really the fall that Mycroft was much afraid of for there was no telling what would happen next. Thus waking up in the middle of the devastation, Mycroft forgot everything and only thought of his brother: the only one that mattered beyond anything in sight. He never wanted to remember that moment with Sherlock laying almost half dead in the middle of that wreckage... the very image he always imagine his brother to be when he was out of his sight.

To see him in the verge of dying in every waking moment.

 _Little brother really..._

" _Please, Sherlock_..." he whispered, his tone weak as if a large lump suddenly blocking his throat, "you don't want me to threaten you now... _wake up_!" He dared not shook him anymore no matter how tempted he was for even his own body was protesting at each movement.

Then there was a grunt and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as his chest took a lungful of air and breathed back to life— making Mycroft sat up straight as he observed his brother's face closely whose eyes blinked several times as if blinded by light and then frowned as he took a difficult swallow.

 _"What... the hell...?"_ he gasped with difficulty and continued his intake of air, making Mycroft sigh out in relief as he shut his eyes close and sat beside the detective with shoulders slumping down wearily once assured of his brother's return. He let silence fall between them, feeling his brother stir his body and jump in pain, give a long painful groan and a curse as he tried to reach on his numb left leg.

It was sprained.

"Don't stress it." The older Holmes whispered as he closed his eyes and breathed, feeling the pain he had been ignoring shoot through his body up to his painful head. His arms, his shoulder... his head... it was a miracle he could move. "It'll do you... no good..." how he wanted to pass out.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock turned his head, assuring Mycroft that there were no spinal injuries, " _What...?"_

But the older brother had much pain to bear as he moaned at the soreness of his entire body.

Sherlock stared at him in confusion but then suddenly noticed the glow surrounding the area. Looking up, he saw the blazing flames before him reflected on his eyes and fell silent. Mycroft followed where he was looking and with a sudden heave of sigh he murmured—

"We survived... not what you're expecting, I suppose?"

Sherlock watched it all, his eyes transfixed at the conflagration. Both brothers didn't speak for a long while, like a mutual vigil both decided to pay. And once again, in the middle of nowhere with the flames threatening to turn everything within sight into ashes and with their bodies from the tip of their hands bathed in blood too injured and beaten to move with no one to call to and no aid to help, the Holmes brothers remained still.

Until Sherlock Holmes chortled that turned into a spasm until he was laughing out loud with his shoulders shaking, his voice cracking with the cackle of the flames while Mycroft rolled his eyes in resentment, his blank face frowning at his younger brother's behaviour which was not _unlike_ him at all.

"Enjoying this much malady, aren't you?" he scoffed looking annoyed as he tried to sat straight but failing, his body complaining.

" _Aren't you?"_ the detective countered in amusement as he slightly turned his head to his brother, "Learn to live life, Mycroft and stop being boring. Unpredictable is fun— _this is fun_."

"Oh yes," the older Holmes nodded in blank mockery, "I saw my life flash before my eyes several times in one day so yes, of course I'm having fun."

Sherlock smiled. "Don't be such a sour puss."

" _I beg your pardon?"_

"I meant being _you._ "

Mycroft paused, his eyebrows lifting new heights and then ending up giving a sigh.

"I'm not John, you know." He offered quietly.

"I _know_ that." Sherlock quickly responded as he blinked at the illocution. " _I know exactly who you are."_

Mycroft let that sink in, and then sat up properly despite his stinging burned arms and injured shoulder. Something on his back was itching but he could care less about it as he straightened and felt his brother's eyes linger on him.

"What?" he turned and nearly gritted his teeth as he felt his already injured shoulder bite in pain.

Sherlock shifted his eyes as he too straightened with a little hiss of pain and reached a hand on his bullet-grazed arm.

"That's what you get when you jumped at an armed lunatic which _makes you a lunatic_." Mycroft observed severely as he stared at his brother's injury. "You should have left me to deal with him, I was the nearest."

"Yeah, well, you aren't quite lucky in dodging bullets. You're an easy target."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You think I didn't know about that one on your leg in 12'? _You've always been slow in that regard, brother._ "

The older Holmes grunted and rolled his eyes, pleasing Sherlock. The detective then looked around and up the blazing sky, his expression full of wonder as Mycroft reached a bloody hand inside his own already filthy and previously white collared polo to feel his painful chest.

"Dammit, I'm spent... I could do with tea right now."

"Call the queen."

"Don't be silly."

" _The King?"_

" _We don't have one."_

"Fine—the prince then?"

"Shut up now. You're making me dizzy."

"Just trying to lighten up the mood." Sherlock swallowed with difficulty again and turned to his older brother hopefully. "So... what's your plan? Any jets to come? Any secretaries to appear with sedans? Anything?" when his brother didn't respond he added impatiently— _"At all?"_

"She won't be coming any time soon." Mycroft answered as he leaned his head back upon opening half the button of his polo, "Unlike what you think, she has her orders to remain where she is. She has no business with the two of us since I'm quite sure she has her hands full what with John being who he is."

He looked up in time to see Sherlock's eyes flicker in understanding.

"You weren't trying to keep her from danger?"

"Not entirely _."_

 _"Damn—there's always something_. So you had her stand guard after John?"

"I had her _deal_ with John." The British government head corrected as he looked languidly at the fire before him, "I'm sure this incident would make him hot on our heels and that's not quite part of my plan. I can't very well save you if I'm also busy saving him. You know civilians are my top priority."

"I'm no civilian." The detective muttered.

" _You're my brother._ That made all the difference. _"_ Mycroft pierced him a steel look that dared him to counter, "That's why I couldn't afford to get distracted... or civilian lives might be put in danger."

Sherlock looked away, somewhat agitated—but then he shot his brother a look again—his temper getting the best of him. "You nearly got yourself killed. Was that part of your plan too?"

"We're supposed to be dead after that crash anyways _. On you_." The man sighed with eyes shut. "Always balance probability, _brother dear._ Besides," he opened his watery eyes and glanced at his little brother. "that helicopter has a tracer. It leaving the area without direct orders and headed toward the opposite direction should already raised attention. In no time my men will be here... it wasn't far from their perimeter anyways... don't be afraid, we'll be saved."

"I'm not _afraid_." Sherlock injected through gritted teeth as he looked madly at the fire. "I'm not a child, Mycroft. Put that in your brain."

The older Holmes chuckled as he closed his eyes again, obviously drifting to sleep. _"No... not really."_

" _Don't sleep_!" Sherlock nearly reprimanded that made Mycroft's eyes shot open in surprise. He glanced at the younger Holmes who flushed at his own reaction and looked away. "I mean... it's not good. What if you have concussion... your injuries don't look promising..."

" _Pot calling kettle black..."_ Mycroft whispered with a smile but his eyes were quite open.

And the brothers sat under the tree stump, shoulder to shoulder, watching the dancing flames in silence.

Until Sherlock thought his own eyes play tricks on him because then a shadow suddenly emerged from the blazing fire—only a distorted figure at first... till it started shaping into a man... and walking towards their direction.

" _What devilry...!"_ Mycroft hissed as he too saw the object in dismay and had reacted upon sitting up—but then felt Sherlock's hand wrap around his wrist and tug on him to follow his movement and both ducked down the ground in hiding. The detective's eyes were bright, bright as the burning fire that surrounds them as he slowly but surely crawled on the soil with grunts and gasps, his leg injury taking pressure from the action.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called in whisper but whatever he wanted to say was drowned by the sound of bullets shooting all throughout the surrounding—nearly missing their heads by inches if they were not crawling still and in haste—

" _Dammit!"_ the detective cursed himself as he struggled to sat straight behind another tree that blocked them from view with beads of sweat mixing on his dirty and bloody face. _"He's got a gun— he got—even brought a gun back from the dead!"_

Mycroft lowered his head and turned to his side to look at their enemy behind another tree—what he saw made him grumble in exasperation.

"It's Moran from the dead... and he doesn't look quite happy... with facial injuries like that."

"You sure? Because the Moran I know can shoot _anything_ pinpoint even with eyes closed."

"He must've been very pissed to rain bullets like that and not hit anything. Or _intended_ it."

"Which makes him dangerous." Sherlock tried to have a peek again and had to pull himself straight after a second. "Dammit, he's heading this way... talk about animal instinct... this is not good, Mycroft. He might just pull us to the grave we barely missed."

Mycroft fell silent as they eyed each other. Then Sherlock started moving again—

" _Follow me!"_

"Where are you going?" the older Holmes hissed again as he watched his younger brother struggle to stand up with his sorry legs almost too painful to watch. "You can't move like that—"

"Just follow me, alright?" the detective didn't bother looking back and Mycroft couldn't do anything less to follow to wherever his younger brother was leading him. The part they ventured was a lot darker than the place near to the fire and the brothers had to feel their way in their surrounding after a few more minutes of crawling. Some distance from them they heard another rain of gunshots and remained still till it was over.

Soon they were on the move again, avoiding any contact with bushes that may give them away, or any sound or whisper from them both. Then two realized how deep they have been traversing the grounds with the soil becoming damp on their touch. The older Holmes would look behind him every now and then for any sign of their prowler—there was none.

Sherlock continued his progression on the ground, until in the end, Mycroft lost patience and stood up, making the younger Holmes looked at him in astonishment.

" _What are you doing?_ " he asked with head up to his brother.

"Indeed, back at you." Mycroft frowned, suddenly raising awareness to his stinging cuts and bruises all over his body, " _What exactly are you up to?"_

"I'm trying to keep you alive!" Sherlock shot up in a sitting position with a little difficulty, a hand planting itself on his pained ribs, "You know this isn't your natural milieu. _You don't do this stuff."_

Mycroft blinked several times as he gazed at his younger brother.

"If you meant _crawling_ or _snaking_ my way around a forest, then yes, I have to agree it really isn't." He said after a long consideration and a look behind his back. "I'm more... the mentalist type and I don't hide. All the same, you know this strategy isn't going to last for long. We have to separate ways."

The detective snapped his eyes closed and sighed signalling he was expecting the obvious to be brought up. The baggage had always been the ideal object to be left behind. In their case—it was him, _Sherlock._ And the ideal diversion had always been the one who has the mobility. It was obvious what they should do next.

Sherlock looked up and eyed his brother with daggers.

"If you leave me here our balance of probability to survive is 0! This is a sniper we're talking about."

"Yet you also know it's the only chance we've got. If only one of us is to survive—"

" _Stop it—just stop!"_ Sherlock exclaimed in anger, almost wanting to take the urge to pull himself up and grab his older brother's collar just to make him see—make him feel— " _stop acting like my life's the only one important here! Between the two of us you know the world needs you more than I! Stop this gloating self-sacrifice you've been rubbing on my face, Mycroft—it's not funny!"_

In response after a second of silence, Mycroft smiled wryly.

"Look who's not having fun now?"

The detective gaped, eyes burning to his older brother with lips thinning.

 _Oh this person truly knows how to get in his nerves._

"Everybody has that," Mycroft explained somewhat coolly and in a matter of fact tone, "that ' _psychedelic moment_ ' where we believed the world is a better place with or without us... but the thing is, _brothermine,_ " he fixed the end of his dirty sleeves and pulled it up his elbow and then the other, their eyes unwavering and fixed, "I don't give a score to what the world thinks because in the end, _it's what I think that matters most_. And you know that as much as I do. Anyway, this strategy has been practiced by many before us so what's the difference?"

His expression turned serious, his shoulders squared and steady. Sherlock growled still—

"What are you planning to do? You don't have any gun, let alone anything— _you're not even familiar with the battlefield!_ How do you expect to engage him— enthral him with your Machiavellian mind?"

"I'll make do."

" _For god sake, think, Mycroft! Think! You turn into the same lunatic when the thrill gets in you!_ "

"Whose vein do you think runs in both of us?"

" _Mycroft!"_

"Your good health, brothermine." He said with a smirk with certain level of confidence on his eyes Sherlock didn't like. It was the same look his older brother had when they were facing Moriarty—somebody ready for any outcome—even come end up dead—

With silence falling, Mycroft looked around the darkness and was in the verge of moving when he turned and saw Sherlock Holmes on his feet despite his injury.

"No." The detective warned with a determined look. "I won't run why you die."

The British government leader glowered. "You'll kill both of us. Stand back."

"No."

"Sherlock," the older Holmes sighed finally as he turned to his brother for the last time in exasperation, "This is quite enough brotherly sentiments for a day. My head's aching, your leg's broken and we're losing _blood_. We don't have time to argue if we want to end this! _Jesus,_ why is it so difficult for you to see reason!"

" _Because I don't want my brother to die!"_

Sherlock felt drained, more than when he first woke up and blamed it all to his sentiments. It was such a powerful chemistry in his system and truly very self destructive. Yet it was also something he could not ignore unlike his brother whose come to master his emotions. Sherlock knew he was beyond that and will continue to be beyond still—

"You're my brother." he sighed almost too painfully as Mycroft stared at him blankly, his eyes round as if truly not expecting such an expression. Was he the greatest idiot among all or what? "That's obvious enough isn't? Now—you care for me—why is it difficult to understand why I should feel the same?"

The silence that struck them after was then filled with gunfire aimed towards their direction and the brother both came crashing down the ground—distracted and pulled back to the world by the harsh reality they seemed to have forgotten. The battle field lit up once again as the brothers hid behind the trees, the continuous sound of gun raining like fireworks, smashing tree trunks and turning its bits to lethal splinters—shrouding the air with its pieces.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as his sudden fall aggravated his already sprained legs and felt its pain shoot up to his nerves. Mycroft was on the other side of the trees and meeting each other's eyes, the detective knew what was on his brother's Machiavellian mind.

The older Holmes nodded and heaved a sigh. It was a goodbye.

 _"Mycroft!"_ Sherlock called but there was no sign of stopping his brother who squared his shoulders and stared moving towards the other direction—Sherlock tried to follow but the oozing bullets from wherever it was coming from was enough to make him still— _"Mycroft!"_

But he was gone.

* * *

 ** _~To be Continued~_**

 _A/N: And another chess piece in the move! :)_

 _Mycroft scores full points! But so did Sherlock 3_

 _This is brotherly~_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	8. The Omega

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~VIII~**

 _"I think that there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge."_

\- W.S.S. Holmes _(The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton)_

 _You have reached this point. Thank you. :) WG._

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Omega_

* * *

Sherlock didn't notice when the firing of the gun stopped—he was too busy trying to breathe air as he pushed his back straight to a tree stump and shut his eyes, his chest heaving with great effort, his perspiration sliding down from his forehead to his jaw. Breathing became difficult again—like a large lump was blocking his airway almost inviting him to pass out. He made some diagnosis using what little consciousness he had left and pointed to himself the shock of blood loss, poor body condition and the probability that he was shot somewhere he didn't feel because his body was already so _beaten._

And then there's Mycroft disappearing.

Sherlock swore as this woke his every nous and fought back the urge to sleep.

He opened his eyes and turned to the place where his brother disappeared.

Mycroft was really gone.

He kept his eyes on that empty space, almost too intently before glancing behind him, finally noticing the absence of the gunshots.

And it dawned on him how Mycroft must've been successful in monopolizing their hunter's attention.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and fought away all the pain and throb his nerves was wracking for him to notice and struggled to stand up on his sprained leg.

"What do you do," he grumbled as he took steps to where Mycroft has disappeared, "when your normally _abnormal brother_ suddenly turns suicidal? What does it mean...? He wants to turn over a new leaf? Wants to learn new dogs that—that tricks whatever that were... He could've stuck to the plan _or_ he could've helped me walk instead of leaving and acting on his own again... stupid _overconfident_ my brother... now it's up to _me_ to see he doesn't get in over his head instead of the other way around... and it's a physical pain in the arse, Mycroft—I'll let you know that!"

He gritted his teeth every step of the way, aware of the heaviness of his body as the minutes passed. His endurance was out of question—he had lasted body operations, drug overdose and even withdrawal symptoms— but then this was the first time he _survived_ a plane crash so he wasn't beating himself over it. But the pain was really tremendous to the point that he was numb. He wished he was numb.

There was no sign of Mycroft or Moran in the first half of his search; the consultant detective tried to look around but the shadow of the night was too obstructing to his senses. He would stop every now and then to catch his breath and flex his strained foot, wondering how on earth he'd make a move if he _did_ find his brother _with_ Moran.

Everything was compromised, his logic offered. The detective cursed the prediction his mind presented and ignored it.

He just had to find Mycroft and he'll _think_ again.

After a few more wanderings in the dark with ears trying to listen to any noise, he noticed the surrounding trees suddenly becoming clearer to his view, but then he noticed it wasn't because his condition was improving.

It was because the fire had reached his side of the forest.

True enough, Sherlock was surprised to see the blazing fire right about him again—its dancing flames eating the trees—swallowing each branch, each leaf and growing up into this gigantic wall—making the other side a hell's fire.

On another time, Sherlock would've found the scenario engaging and interesting and would even humour about it.

But the possibility of his brother being _in_ there was another thing and he stood there immobile for awhile, watching the fire destroy everything, his eyes searching for any movements, any sign of Mycroft being truly inside when—

 _Gun shots rang in solid three counts_.

Sherlock distractedly looked to his left side with wide eyes.

"Mycroft?" he called out loud, almost scrambling on his feet in his haste towards his left—only his numb foot tripped over a tree root that sent him down with a crash—

Sherlock cursed all the extraneous delay as he quickly tried to push himself from the ground—thinking of the gunshots and wondering who shot who and who although he was aware Mycroft does not have any weapon and that Moran was a professional sniper and was ever a relentless pursuer.

 _His brother does not stand a chance, logic wise._

"Don't think— _stop thinking dammit!"_ he berated himself as he clawed the ground and was about to raise himself when he heard a twig snapping and knew someone was walking closer. Distracted again, Sherlock raised his eyes and turned his head around hopefully. There were only two people who could be there—his brother or Moran. He wished it was the former. The latter would be fine too—he'd murder the man any minute if something had happened—

" _Mycroft_?" he bellowed—the suspense killing him as he felt someone did indeed walk towards him—

Only—

 _"If it isn't my dear Sherlock_. Fate does like to entwine us, doesn't it?"

Sherlock froze with eyes on the ground as he heard that familiar voice. A pair of dirty white shoes stopped in front of him as he bowed, their dirty appearance too obviously telling him of the owner's history of blood, fire and _death_. He still couldn't believe his eyes when he looked up and found himself once again face to face with the adversary he thought had long disappeared in hell.

But then—didn't hell just opened up again in that entire blaze around?

James Moriarty stood in front of him as solid as the ground he was clutching; his body was no better than any of the survivors with blood covering half of his face and wounds and cuts almost making him surreal. Half of his clothes were burnt, covering at least half his burnt body but the man didn't seem to mind. In fact—he never looked and felt alive.

Sherlock knelt on the ground rigid and silent.

Especially when this newly reawakened from the dead _Moriarty_ raised that never ending gun point on the detective's face. It was the same all over again. This seemed to make James smile for the ent time.

"We never get tired, do we?" he started with that too calm-hiding-excitement-underneath tone of his voice, his red and swollen eyes wide open and only at Sherlock, "I trap, you escape... I hunt, you run... I fly the helicopter... you crash it... what a pair we make. Maybe I should consider swapping with John and we be thick as thieves?"

He smirked that turned into an ugly grimace and Sherlock realized he wasn't the only one hurting.

This man was also dying.

Sherlock finally returned the smile.

"Drop the idea. You can't hold a candle to John."

Moriarty's face went darker and paler— and if possible—even _more evil._

"You're right in that respect, fine. Your John's too much of a goody-two-shoes anyway. Makes me sick." The hate in his bloodshot eyes was becoming more visible. "Although in the end, here we are again... and we both know how it ends now, don't we Sherlock?"

The detective didn't answer. No reason to. It was all ending anyway.

"Good, good you get it, even accept it?" Moriarty pressed on, seemingly enjoying himself despite the huge fire surrounding them. The blaze was wild and crazy— it didn't help when the wind blew and circulated—it grew even faster—and Sherlock understood it— nobody was meant to escape that day. Maybe Mycroft might get lucky. As for him...

"I didn't want to kill you yet... it beats the point of my... entire endeavour. But since we're the only one here... are you ready to die yet, Sherlock?" to nobody's surprise, he unlocked the trigger.

The fire danced. The atmosphere was more than the tolerable humid. Life expectancy was null.

"Just get it over with." Sherlock whispered after a pause, not taking his eyes off the mouth of the gun. Deep inside his mind palace... somewhere in there he could hear the resounding laughter of the other _Moriarty_... getting stronger... pulling him once again... encouraging him to come... to that place of no return.

He saw James' eyes flickered and knew any second he _will die._

By the looks of it, maybe this man will end himself too.

And then maybe, _Mycroft_ was alive out there somewhere. Sherlock could only hope for his big brother. Maybe this tragic hunting game for one Holmes will end once and for all. The coincidence of both of them getting killed would make even the universe flip itself.

 _No_ , as he and his brother both knew— _this universe was hardly lazy._

The gun hovered on his head—almost kicking itself for not being of use yet—

But then something happened that made Moriarty suddenly looked around seemingly distracted by a movement from the corner of his eyes.

Sherlock noticed it too—a shadow of a man was lingering by a tree not far from them. His senses heightened at the prospect of the man's identity—who else could it be?

"Damn him..." the detective muttered in disbelief— _Moran_ wouldn't hide from Moriarty like that!

James seemed to think the same as he clutched the gun with both hands and grinned from ear to ear with eyes alert and jumping at the area where he saw the shadow hide. A split second his once dark face turned bright.

"But of course, Mycroft Holmes wouldn't have left you to die like this, would he?" Moriarty's voice was like a bomb that shattered the detective's hope, "he'd always come saving his _little brother._ What a sweet big brother you have, Sherlock."

"Leave him alone..." the detective's lips dried as his eyes jumped from the tree where they saw the shadow to the gun Moriarty was now holding with all his power, "this is between us!"

Moriarty grinned menacingly as he raised his eyes around the blaze and chuckled in delight—

"Nah, it isn't about us—how many times do I tell you? It's my kill— your brother. I hate your brother—I hate his sentimental burst that'd do anything for his brother while mine just went ahead and blow himself up."

"If you'd really been paying attention you'd realise Mycroft almost sent me to a suicidal mission in Eastern Europe to have me blown up! How's that _sentimental?_ "

"You really don't get it—"

"I don't care what kind of brother you've got!" Sherlock raged as he mustered his strength and stood up with clenched teeth; Moriarty's eyes were on him. " _Leave mine alone!"_

But the smile on James' face was a dead giveaway.

"Always your magic word, Sherlock. Always."

Sherlock straightened up slowly while the deranged man hollered like mad in the midst of the fire.

" _Mr. Holmes—why not join us!? I got your brother again—you don't want to see him die alone do you? Show yourself—I know you're there...! Come and join the party, would you—arghh!"_

Things went wrong after—as Sherlock, drove by his own impulse—dived at Moriarty's hand again—only too slow—and was caught by Moriarty's bullet around the knee that sent him sprawling on the ground for the last time.

"SEE?" Moriarty shouted with the gun on Sherlock's head while the detective howled in pain, "He'll go straight to heaven after I pull this last shot, Mr. Holmes. Come and join us! Just so he could watch you die!"

Driven by the pain, Sherlock clutched his knees and braced his shaking body. He wasn't thinking straight, his body was spent and Mycroft was about to die... he glared at Moriarty who looked back at him with a smile.

"Your brother's coming out." Moriarty told him with a smile.

Alarmed, Sherlock looked at the shadow and saw it move towards them in the middle of the blazes with his eyesight blurring—

"You're still playing that game..." Sherlock whispered as he eyed Moriarty, his lips shaking, his consciousness fading.

"Aren't you?" James muttered back with dark eyes looming on him, "Your brother sure does."

The detective breathed out and licked his lips. And then his eyes turned to that person coming from the blazing fire and worried what would happen next. The game was ready to end. They were both not so lucky it seems.

" _Mycroft..."_ he whispered and saw his world turned upside down as his consciousness failed him.

But not before he heard gunshots firing.

And the world collapsed and darkened.

* * *

 _ ***John's side***_

 _"It makes a considerable difference to me having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely"_

 _\- W.S.S Holmes to J.H.W (The Boscombe Valley Mystery)_

* * *

John Watson stood outside the E.R of a hospital with a curt scowl of his face, his eyes deep set and his posture rigid and unsettled. His dark clothes were a reflection of the turbulence inside him; his crossed arms the evidence of his discomfort and agony. Not to mention— _anger._

The bright red lights of the emergency room were on— had been on two hours ago since Sherlock Holmes was brought there from the hellish place he had been. And John was there since the beginning.

Ever since _he_ shot Moriarty from that blasted inferno.

The doctor remembered it all well from the start— how Sherlock left him on the street after receiving instructions from whoever was behind the vile finger sent on their doorsteps. How he—John Watson meant to follow but hesitated knowing that eyes were on him—until he decided to go the other way around towards where else but the Diogenes club. Not finding Mycroft there alarmed him that he was almost kicked out of the place when he decided to make a riot— but then with luck he found himself suddenly face to face with Anthea—or whoever she was and found himself once again inside one of Mycroft's sedan—the _Secret Service_ or so it seemed.

He fired questions at her—Mycroft's whereabouts, Sherlock's whereabouts, the criminal's whereabouts and where the hell they were going but she didn't respond. Instead she sat there composed and quiet—and told him they were going for a ride.

A ride they did—towards central London and nowhere else.

John was fuming an hour and a half later, telling her off that if she wasn't part of the solution then be damned _not be part of the problem._ He didn't mean to make it sound offensive but Sherlock was in danger and Mycroft possibly dead so he didn't have the damn time to be all gentlemen like to somebody who obviously knows something but not helping.

Then came the _call._ An urgent call that made the collected lady suddenly turn the shade of white.

John didn't hesitate as he snatched the phone and heard visible words: _explosion—injured—possible deaths._

He questioned her severely. She refused to answer and threatened to drop him off, her firm attitude suddenly returning and John would have commended her for her loyalty to whatever instruction she was following but he never cared much for instructions when Sherlock's life was in peril. He tried again and this time his own words shattering even her firm resolve.

 _"If something happens to my best friend you're one of the few people I won't forget. Just remember that. I could have done something to prevent it—I will still try with or without you blasted people's help—but if I am late and I find him dead god help me you're going to have to answer to that. Mark my words—someone's got to answer that."_

He saw her flinch under his gaze and hesitate.

Then there was the second call that John answered on his own with Anthea finally letting him.

This time it seemed like an _Alpha_ was taken together with an _Omega_ in one of their helicopter.

John didn't have to ask who those code names stand for. It was clear he was in the game as Anthea told the driver to proceed to Point C. Another code name John didn't have to decipher. He understood everything as clear as crystal.

Mycroft it seems was alive with Sherlock. But not yet safe.

And they gave him equipments, even clearance for a gun. John didn't like the idea of a gun no matter how warmly his hands welcomed it. It just means everything turned dire and that lives were at stake. He was not new to danger but every time Sherlock's life was involved it was always up to him to take precautions.

And what of Mycroft?

Anthea briefed the army doctor of the present situation—she purposely neglected to enlighten him of why she was driving him around. She informed him that the Alpha-Omega brothers were taken by the Jackal— _Moran_ to be specific and Rosenberg— James Moriarty she said.

And it all came to John of why this man took his best friend and his brother; that this man was seeking revenge and decided to outwit the detective by involving his brother. But that was a dangerous game—risky, really—involving the _British Government head_ was like a shot in the dark.

Mycroft was not one to go down easily not with all his resources and everything tricky under his sleeves. And Sherlock was not one to give way either—with both those brothers around a competition of who could take down the enemy first will be the game. So then—why was he carrying a loaded fire arms towards a military helicopter, wearing an MI6 gear and sitting together with ten or so Secret Service personnel?

What went wrong with Sherlock and Mycroft?

John cursed them silently if he finds they argued in the middle of the crisis.

Then came the third call. The hijacked helicopter they suspected crashed in a forest.

John remembered his brain shutting down—like that moment he was struck by a bicycle—or that time he saw Sherlock's dead body on the ground... his sensations nearly failed him had it not for his firm grasp of the hope that somehow maybe his friend and his brother _survived_.

Thus, the operation in the inferno. The crash of the plane had set a wildfire almost making it impossible for their helicopter to land—the strong wind made by its spinning wheel made the fire grow bigger. It was a risky task to go down as the flames kept on growing bigger but the army doctor had his mind only on one thing: to find the Holmes brothers.

Once down, the others dispersed on different directions. It was impossible to move around without being cautious; John didn't know where to start, everywhere was too bright and hot—then they heard gunshots that made him run towards the sound—but then he suddenly heard a voice shouting—thus cutting his run and ending on the opposite side of the trees where—to his relief he saw Sherlock Holmes kneeling on the ground alive—but only just—with a gun on his head.

And man in front of him—John didn't care who he was—he just wanted to reach Sherlock.

But getting their attention was not part of his plan—he didn't have a plan at all as he staggered and hid behind one of the trees and listened to their conversation. And realized they thought he was Mycroft—and that this man—whoever he was—wanted Mycroft killed.

So it means Mycroft was alive somewhere. John thanked heavens for that—he only he had to work his way out into saving his best friend—

But then there was a gunshot and Sherlock shouting in pain—

John jumped out and saw the detective clutch his knees—he shook his head and raised his gun, all the while moving without fear for his life—and the man laughing and Sherlock falling—

He pulled the trigger and with one shot the man was dead.

Sherlock was partly conscious when he ran to him... he remembered Sherlock muttering something—someone's name. Who else? He was calling his brother. There was no sign of Mycroft anywhere. John remembered Sherlock passing out and nothing else. The doctor could remember little after that. He was so bloody worried to even remember all the step of the way towards reaching the hospital. He had a glimpse of memory of the detective losing pulse and heartbeat but he didn't want to remember that anymore. He was too mentally exhausted.

The E.R light seemed to provoke him of its light.

John kept his eyes at it, unblinking and severe.

He would worry about one thing before another, he thought.

The first was Sherlock's life. The second was Mycroft's whereabouts. Mycroft Holmes was never found in the middle of the blaze in the span of two hours. Nor did they find Moran's body yet.

For two hours in the flame.

But John would worry about that later as he closed his eyes. Anthea promised to call him if there were any developments and somehow he believed her. He earned her respect for all he cared. He also believed that she will not stop until Mycroft Holmes was found. Both dead _or_ alive.

John Watson closed his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose with a loud sigh.

He should worry about the Sherlock first... one at a time...

Yet his mind kept drifting at Mycroft's condition and what to tell Sherlock if ever...

There was a loud clicking sound and when John opened his eyes and looked up he saw that the Emergency light had been turned off. His palm sweating, his feet cold, he waited for the surgeons to come out and when they did he was fast on their face.

"How...?" he began with his voice cracking.

"He's fine," the surgeon nodded briefly as he took off his gloves and mask, "the surgery on his knee went well, there's no lasting injury, not even a limp when he finally heals. His head's fine too despite a heavy concussion—that should shake some memory in him but we managed. His burns will heal in time with proper cleaning and bandaged but will mark... the cuts and bruises are all a trifle considering he came from a crashed plane. To make it short he'll live. He'll be transferred to another room after a day or so, just after some for observation."

"Oh, thank god." John breathed as the doctor nodded and left the vicinity with the others while the nurses lingered by to check the detective's vitals. John's eyes fell on Sherlock who still had his air supply mask on and fast asleep.

 _Breathing._

John stayed rooted on the spot for awhile until he heard a silent footstep walking away from him. Looking on his side, he saw one of the secret service men wearing dark suits who had been guarding them since they arrive walking with his back on him and on the phone.

" _Omega's out of danger."_ He said quietly but loud enough for John to hear. " _How about the Alpha?"_

The sigh of the man was enough answer for the army doctor as he watched him go.

A sigh he also gave as he decided to enter the E.R.

* * *

Two weeks of recovery did not improve both Sherlock and John's moods. For two weeks there was no news of Sherlock's brother and the two waited impatiently for any developments—constantly nagging Mrs. Hudson for any message or even _Anthea_ whose silence was not a good sign.

John was on the edge by the third week and Sherlock the worst—although he was not showing much of it—only with his sour temper and words—added with his constant disappearance that John would always see as another sign of the man either looking for his brother on his own or him in his pesky habit of drug use again.

"Wanna talk about it?" he finally asked one afternoon.

"You don't even know what you want to talk about." Sherlock answered shortly and that put an end on the conversation.

The detective had shared everything that had transpired to his chronicler that night and everything he could remember to the last point—though refraining a bit on the accurate exchange of words; John decided against putting the experience on the blog _just yet_ —not with Mycroft still missing.

Sherlock was silent most of the time after that. As if remembering things he didn't want to divulge.

Until on that third day when Anthea sent a message telling the two to go to the morgue.

It was a dark moment. A very dark moment.

Sherlock was too silent, not breathing even and John had to grip both his own hands in a silent prayer.

Nobody spoke. Not even when they walked out of the car and headed straight to the body they were asked to identify.

One glance at the body and John knew it was Mycroft's.

He felt his knees shake as he refused to take another step and watched how Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock didn't do anything but stare—too intently actually—on the corpse's right hand.

And then he walked out—away without a word.

John was about to follow him when he made a turn and glanced at right hand too—and then saw that it was missing its ring finger. Frowning, John followed his best friend out and into the car.

"What the hell's that mean? Why do you look so happy?" he berated the detective who continued looking away with a triumphant look in his eyes. Whatever that means, he was going to beat the knowledge out of Sherlock.

The detective refused to give a proper answer until they reached 221b again.

At there—Sherlock stopped—eyes on the knocker. John was becoming impatient as he too looked at the straight knocker on the door, seemingly untouched and was about to question his best friend when he saw—out of the corner of his eyes—a woman.

John glanced and saw her for a second before she disappeared inside her car. _Anthea._

Frowning even more, John then saw Sherlock haste inside 221B but he didn't follow. Something about Anthea was not right. _She was crying._ He saw her wipe her tears as she went. John decided to follow her.

What was the matter with these people? He thought as he jumped inside a cab with the clues circling in his head. Sherlock happy and Anthea crying.

Maybe he was the one reading the wrong signals. Anyways—he was not _the Omega—_

 _It's Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

 ** _~THE OMEGA~_**

 _A/N: OMEGA is the **END!**_

 _We reached it!_

 _Thank you for being with me all through those weeks ;)_

 _It's been fun writing about these brothers!_

 _Mycroft and Sherlock are always adorable. Especially when they antagonize each other~_

 _but in the end are still ' **Thick as Thieves'**_ _as they say too._

 _I gave the clues, we know what's in the end!_

 _I will see you in the epilogue chapter to wrap it all up~_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	9. The Apology

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~IX~**

 _"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."_

\- W.S.S. Holmes _(The Bascombe Valley Mystery)_

 ** _A/N: This is an extra chapter to wrap up our story!_**

 ** _Thank you for everybody who's able to see this... uh... 'grand' brotherly story ;)_**

 ** _Be it tragic or whatnot-_**

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Apology (Part I)_

* * *

 _It was three days after Sherlock woke up from a five-day coma when he found himself with his friend John Watson inside one of the hospital's private rooms. The diagnosis for the detective had been light considering all his wounds, burns, bullet holes and fractured bones, and with the only a bandaged leg remaining to be mark of his misadventure._

 _Sherlock's face was pale and gaunt, his fatigue from the previous actions showing by how hollow his eyes were; still life flickered in them, burning and ignited by the news brought by the sudden visit of Anthea half an hour ago, informing them of the progress of his brother Mycroft Holmes whereabouts— that in the first 72 hours search with all the force of the Secret Service and other authoritative affiliations working hand in hand they found none. The wild fire had been controlled and afraid as they were of any discovery, they were still unable to find any fragments or objects that can be considered human— in short the report contained nothing much to Sherlock's chagrin as he pointed it out huskily._

 _John had sat silently on the side chair of the bed when Anthea left and said nothing._

 _Sherlock didn't seem interested with anything at all as he too remained silent even when his friend cleared his throat to press on. When nothing came John was forced to clear his throat again, making the detective glance at him finally—_

 _"If you want to say something—"_

 _"She's doing what she can, you know—" John started patiently with a slight glance towards the door—_

 _"So what—she found nothing." The detective snapped hotly as he looked around from the side table to his bed sheet. The doctor quietly took something from his jacket pocket and handed a mobile phone to its owner. Sherlock snatched it and started pedalling on the digits with his thumbs._

 _"Who are you texting?"_

 _"You know who. One of my networks."_

 _"Is it the guy living under London Bridge or the one hidden at Big Ben?"_

 _"Big Ben—he knows a lot of things when it comes to missing people."_

 _"Oh yes, that old bloke who gave you the whereabouts of the twin's kidnappers? And the missing Indian—"_

 _"Yes. He's been pretty essential and he might proved useful than the London force. As usual."_

 _Silent fell again as the doctor nodded and the detective texted._

 _John stared at his worn out friend and could clearly see what others couldn't._

 _"Sherlock." He whispered._

 _There was no response, making the doctor look down the floor, knowing that sooner or later it had to be opened; that Sherlock had to talk about it as he, John, when once in the same position of the loss of his friend, needed to say it—to let it out. To accept it._

 _And talk about the possibility of the older Holmes' death._

 _But John's feet already felt cold for he didn't know this side of Sherlock. Yes, there was that one time with Irene Adler's presumed death where he actually showed 'emotions' of some kind. Sulking more like. The Woman whom he only shared few months of text messages and outwits and sentiments of opposite sex to another._

 _But this time was different._

 _This time it was a person whom he shared his life with— a person whose place was irreplaceable— a rival—enemy—confidant— constant mother— nagger— guide—protector— never was called a friend for he never let himself fall in the category but was always 'always' there—a person who truly understands what it means to be different with others and possibly the only person who understands Sherlock better than himself—_

 _Sherlock's brother._

 _John grasped both his hands and looked up to watch his friend. A world of Sherlock Holmes without Mycroft Holmes. Even the doctor was afraid of that._

 _"Sherlock," he tried again as he licked his lips and cleared his throat for the third time, "What if—"_

 _"He is alive." Sherlock suddenly breathed with his deep voice as if reading everything as clear as daylight that made his friend look up to him in wonder and silence. "He's alive, John." He repeated as if to assure himself more, catching John's eyes meaningfully._

 _As if believing it would make it true._

 _The ex-army doctor gave a short nod, his eyes shifting from the detective to the floor._

 _"If... if he is alive then why hasn't he shown himself?" he asked out loud, unable to conceal the doubt in the tone of his voice that made him regret a second later after seeing the expression on the detective's face._

 _"Cause he's an idiot." Sherlock muttered in contempt, seemingly unaware of the face he was making that rendered John silent and to look down his hands._

 _"Alright, then... he's alive." The doctor looked up again; half hoping the illogical answer of the detective would make Mycroft appear just to mock it. "So... how do we know when he'll come back?"_

 _"He doesn't need to come back— he just needs to be alive."_

 _"What?"_

 _"No—you don't understand—" Sherlock looked so distracted for awhile that John was afraid his friend was having a seizure or something—he breathed hard and looked around as if searching for the right word, his eyes wild and somewhat in frenzy as he tried again with impatience only he could show, "There's a likelihood he's playing with us— he likes his drama, my brother. Very lazy but when captivated by the situation he'll be and act be the genius that he is! He'll play it in his hands this—this 'pretending to be dead' scheme. The last time I did it I turned to him—he was the person I trusted with my plan aside from Molly Hooper—or more accurately he's the man behind that scheme to be exact. All through the process he kept telling me how much of a dramatic actor I was—and insisted he'd be doing the same given the circumstances—only that—he wouldn't necessarily jump from a building where a lot of things could go wrong and do all this blood vandalism on the floor—no—he said he'll just disappear one day and pull on the strings without anyone knowing. Very creative my brother. I told him he need not bother—he's invisible anyways. Nobody even knows his name in public—he'll die without Britain citizens know—" he cut his breath short, his eyes flashing angrily then—_

 _"He's alive." He nodded at John with fatigue eyes reddening than ever, "He's alive, John."_

 _"Calm down." The doctor reached for the alarm button and pressed it all the while staying a hand on the detective's arm firmly. "It's okay, Sherlock. They'll find him—I'm sorry. Calm down—nurse?"_

 _There was a lot of sedative after that._

 _And John wished and prayed for Mycroft's safe return. For Sherlock's sake._

* * *

Two weeks was a tall to wait.

Not even Sherlock's network was able to respond to him.

Nobody was in the mood for anything—not even proper talking— until Anthea's last message of going to the morgue. There was that dread when the message was received and John hadn't the time to prepare himself for it when Sherlock dashed out of 221B just to confirm it—

And then they saw the body and he really thought it was Mycroft until Sherlock smiled.

The first _real_ one in weeks.

Sherlock couldn't help it when it was so obvious the body didn't belong to his brother with its _ring finger missing—_ it was the same body he saw Moriarty held captive in that warehouse. The Secret Service obviously retrieved it for identification—they must have been very confused upon seeing a body much akin to their higher up. But Sherlock knew it was not his brother's and that finally his first clue in the long run has appeared and when clues starts raining to be pieced together it could only mean one thing—

Mycroft was coming.

The detective had been in an amicable mood after that, or so he thought especially when what he noticed next as he and John walked on the pavement caught his attention: the city cameras were turning on their every step.

A wave of excitement filled him as he rode the cab back to Baker Street, all the while keeping eyes on the cameras. There was only one person in town that could manipulate and do such feat and that person has the same surname as he. Then when Sherlock saw 221B's door—his excitement flared up as the third clue rose—why the knocker of their door was _straight!_ Who else in the world would bother to do that other than _that man?_ His brother, as he had already cared to mention to John—has this obsession in making things straight— _literally and figuratively._

He dashed towards their room—up to the stairs and into the landing of the room's door. Sherlock halted then as his eyes lingered on the close door warily. The threshold was dark and his momentary excitement lapsed on incredible speed— and suddenly he was afraid of what to find.

He didn't even notice he was alone as he took silent step towards the door and put a hand on the knob.

If he really was back... then Mycroft just had a field day giving him a hell of those textbook clues.

The detective clenched his jaw as he turned the knob and opened the room—to what little light was shed by the outside window—revealing his quiet and dusty room with tiny particles of dust drifting in the ray of light in the middle of the day, its corners with shadows, his things left untouched.

And there seated on John's usual chair with his back on him, head bow as he seemed to be looking down at something was Sherlock's brother. Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock slowly walked inside his room—why wouldn't he when this place belonged to him? And took cautious steps so as not to startle the person. He walked around and slowly reached his favourite chair exactly opposite of John's corner.

He then sat on it with dark eyes looming at his elder brother who had watched him since his entrance. Mycroft was wearing his usual piece of clothes that Sherlock found welcoming as it erased the last memory of his brother's blood soaked and bombed infused one. He was also holding on to his umbrella that seemed to make everything back to normal.

The brothers sat facing each other, observing, discerning, and seemingly trying to better the other.

Only that—Sherlock had no intention of playing deductive skills at the moment as he opened his dry lips.

"You took your time." He started with a voice so low it didn't seem to belong to him.

"And so did you." Mycroft glanced down at his pocket watch and smiled up to his brother, a suspicious twinkle was on his eyes as if enjoying something his little brother didn't know—but then again that was how it had always been with Mycroft Holmes. Always the show off. "I calculated your arrival and had only been here a second before you—"

"I know." The detective answered, his eyes travelling at his brother's appearance, his voice still off key and low. The last time he saw his brother he was covered in blood and injuries. Right now it didn't seem like there was anything ailing him—from those straight shoulders and body, to those uncut hands and almost vibrant complexion, if Sherlock didn't really saw it with his own eyes he would never thought the experience of Moriarty's torture true.

Seemed like Anthea did a pretty good job.

"You're looking robust." Sherlock said after awhile of silence that made Mycroft beam at him.

"Don't I ever?" he answered as he twirled the umbrella under his hand, "Appearance had always been a highlight of mine, dear brother— something which you really should learn given the instances where you _meet_ important people from time to time. Do you remember that historical meeting at the Buckingham palace where you tragically came in your birthday suit to meet the prince?"

"—of course—"

" _Such a catastrophe."_

"What—? It must've amused him. It's not every day he sees a full potential man go and meet him in his blanket?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes in a familiar fashion that made Sherlock smile to himself.

"Point is," the older Holmes insisted with one eyebrow raised, "you have _dignity_ to uphold as you call yourself this ' _consulting detective'_. People know you, Sherlock, you're a celebrity—you can't appear filthy in public's eye—"

"Why do you care of the public?" Sherlock finally found his voice as he sat with eyes only at his brother, "Why do you even care for this nation when they don't even know your name? You disappeared— the government thought you dead and even if they do mention your name in the news— _who are you to these people?_ Just another Holmes, a brother of the consulting detective?"

"Ridiculous." Mycroft scoffed with eyebrows rising to heaven. "You know it's not to my advantage for the public to realise who I am and what I do, don't you? Isn't that why you don't tell people you have me as a brother except those few you really cared about?"

"I don't talk about you to save them the trouble." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

" _You don't talk about me to save me from trouble."_ Mycroft smirked.

The two eyed each other with the daggers rekindling in their eyes—the fire, the amusement of the battle—and of finally having to face each other again—all too clear in those brilliant expressions.

"It's good to have you back, brother." Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

The effect on Mycroft was colossal as he straightened his body and eyes not leaving his brothers.

" _Your good health, brothermine_." He said rather dismissively that reminded the detective once again of that moment when his brother said it last—back when he was about to dive head on into the fire to face Moran—when all after everything has been said and done he left— leaving Sherlock to deal with his entangled wire of emotions of losing his brother over again. And all his feelings came back from only those words and the bad taste in his mouth returned.

"I should never forgive you." The detective went on coldly.

"It's funny how you change from one tone to another—"

" _Definitely_ won't forgive you."

"But alas, brother. I'm not expecting you to." Mycroft sighed and smiled, meeting his younger brother's heated eyes and pure anger as memory of their hardships and sacrifices became all too apparent and lay in front of them again, replacing their old scores with new ones. "You should not dwell in the past anymore Sherlock, let it be. What's done is done... its water under the bridge."

"I'd rather drown than forget." Sherlock's eyes were steel as his grit of teeth showed his resentment, "How did you survive?"

There was no point in _not_ asking the question. Truth be told it was still a mystery to Sherlock how this man had survive. True, the Secret Service may have proven themselves able and reliable—but an almost three-week disappearance—one would think someone was pulling the strings. And if it's not the _universe_ then definitely it's someone with the same power. Who else but the same man sitting all so comfortably in John's shabby chair?

Mycroft took his time as he held his umbrella with an unexpected grip. Sherlock had been too observant of his brother since the older Holmes came; sensitive to any sign of pain, any show of discomfort that would give him clay to his bricks—because then it would be _unthinkable_ and downright _illogic_ if Mycroft Holmes showed none.

What exactly did he do with his wounds?

"I survived..." came Mycroft's subtle voice with eyes wavering down and up to his brother, " _because you were expecting me to._ Or to be more accurate, that's what you want me to."

Sherlock blinked and frowned. Why was he giving vague answers now? The detective narrowed his eyes as it fell down to the golden band encircling his brother's _attached_ finger on the right and gave a smirk.

"I knew it wasn't you. _That body_ on the morgue. Tell me, was that your touch too?"

"Oh, yes. One of the clues, wasn't it? Was it very effective?"

"Very. Though really deceptive given your same weight—"

"That's rude—if you thought for a second that was me then you ought to be ashamed of your deductive skills— _I happened to be less flabby and leaner."_

"Yes, you'd say that." Sherlock was enjoying himself again as he inclined his head on one side and watched his brother's reaction. "You were never that _stoic_ when it comes to these things."

Mycroft's dark eyes narrowed. Sherlock pressed his lips and shrugged.

"So you're... on a diet?"

"Since Christmas actually."

"Hardly noticeable."

"Oh yes, of course you _didn't notice_. The same way you didn't notice that finger in a box sent your way that really didn't belong to me?"

Sherlock sat straight, his eyes rounding in full surprise. " _How did you know—?"_

Mycroft wasn't suppose to know—Sherlock never told him the real reason why he was successfully lured in that trap of Moriarty—not with all the little of his pride left after everything.

Yet, the older Holmes continued smiling still as he went on, "You'd be surprised by the number of things I know, brother dear." His eyes twinkled that made Sherlock raise his head as he tried to find the only explanation.

"You talked to John?"

"Talking is unnecessary with John." the older Holmes rolled his eyes in exasperation, "You know yourself he's an open book. But no—I didn't—he didn't need to tell me anything. Anyway, if it's something you didn't wish to tell me _he will tell me by himself and I need not ask._ That's how faithful he is to both of us. That's how much he cares for you."

"Yet you kept telling me your own philosophy— _'caring is not an advantage',_ Mycroft?"

Mycroft shrugged. "It's merely a philosophy. Something that allows people to keep living after all the heartache. You should remember it well, brothermine. You'll need it. Not that I am saying 'caring' for others has no merits. Look at you and John. Hardly inseparable. You should do right by him— _real friends don't come often._ "

There was a sad note in his tone that Sherlock decided not to divulge. This was Mycroft anyway.

"You're no fun." Sherlock muttered that made his brother raise an eyebrow but he dismissed it and continued— "Who else would tell you about that finger—ahh— _Mrs. Hudson?"_

"You know I avoid her." It was said in a matter-of-fact-tone added with an incredulous expression.

"She's not that bad—"

" _She's terrible."_

"No—no. _Just disturbing."_

"Save me the trouble of understanding her— _please._ I know too well who she is. You think I'd let you live in a place without doing a thorough background of the people you're living with?"

"' _Caring is not really an advantage', brother dear.'"_ Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft smiled again with that suspicious twinkle in his eye returning.

"By the way," he then went on, "have you noticed your _caring friend_ 'John', is missing?"

* * *

John Watson didn't know the purpose of everything he's been doing lately—not after the appearance of that finger in a box. From the moment it appeared, to the rescue operation of Sherlock until now, it was like he was drifting into an insane reality with his body moving in its own accord and following his gut feeling of what must be done—

Just like then when without a word he jumped into the cab and had it followed the black sedan he so usually occupies—to wherever that silent lady riding it was heading to. John had known Anthea on those brief moments of exchange during the crisis of the Holmes brothers and knew she was not the kind of woman to give in easily to emotion. She knew better than that if she was Mycroft Holmes' secretary. So why was she crying? Happiness? Overwhelm? What?

And so he followed her, making sure the car doesn't escape his eyes. He had seen quite enough that day to believe that somehow, out there— _Mycroft Holmes_ was alive.

He doubted it the second however, when the black sedan glided towards the place he least expected it to see.

 _The city cemetery._

* * *

Sherlock looked around seemingly just noticing the absence that made his brother narrow his eyes.

"You came here absentmindedly... if I didn't know better Sherlock I'd say you were worried about something."

"Ever tried having your brother appear from the grave lately, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped as he sat straight again with eyes turning to the door, half expecting his friend to be standing there and to be looking in surprise at Mycroft's return. He was sure the doctor was with him until he reached Baker Street.

"I had him fake his own death, almost sent to Eastern Europe and nearly got killed a number of times in the margin of a day so yes, I have no problem adapting, thank you very much."

"Then maybe you can tell me where John is seeing as you seem to know _everything._ "

"Oh, I know _everything."_ Mycroft's smile was full of meaning as he gazed at his brother who blinked back in slight surprise, "I know _everything_ that you know, Sherlock, your secret of the finger for example without anyone telling me, of course I know—every fibre—every figment—everything that you're thinking right now, even the exact dosage of your drug—I know. But if it is something that you have no idea about—say John's whereabouts or even _how I survived—_ then I'm afraid I can't help you. After all, this is—" he pointed around the room with his umbrella and smiled down at the detective again and finished— " _your palace."_

* * *

"You know they could have shot you following me like that." Anthea began when John stood behind her with a frown on his face. He had followed her inside the memorial park, towards that place he knew so well. It was the same place where Sherlock's tomb used to be standing when he faked his death—the same place where he also watched the tomb be remove, afraid it might call its owner for real. John hesitated a little, and then stepped beside her and looked down to where she was looking.

In place of Sherlock's black tomb stone now only a black stone plate remained. It was blank.

"What's the meaning of this?" he started briskly, his breathings becoming shallow as his mind tried to piece things together, "W-what are you doing here—who's—?"

" _You're not in clearance to know."_

He looked up at her and dread crossed his heart at the expression she was making— and a terrible sound of grief came out of his lips as he understood and looked down the nameless grave.

"No... No..."

* * *

Sherlock looked thunderstruck for a moment.

"Finally understand it, don't you?" Mycroft gave a sigh but his ever determined eyes were steeled and full of life, "Didn't think it was possible, Sherlock? But that's the problem with brains like ours, my brother. If not properly use it _swallows_ us. I'm afraid it happens to you often. You should really do something about that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Work with me, Sherlock, you can figure it out, brains like yours—"

" _Mycroft—what?"_

"I know what you ask—but I don't have the answer."

" _Where's John?"_

"I don't know."

 _"How did you survive?"_

"I don't know."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock stood up in his full height, his pale face turning even paler as he shut his eyes and shook his head—and flashes of memory came to him—exactly as Mycroft spoke—as if he was inside his head—

 _You have all the clues you need—why not piece them together, really Sherlock. The dead body, the camera... the knob of your door... my uninjured body... aren't they all just too... obvious?_

"What..."

"A fine touch, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft shrugged as he remained seated on John's chair with Sherlock staring down at his brother with this horrible feeling. "It was all elementary, Sherlock, don't tell me you fell easily for it?"

Sherlock remained silent, his mind palace working furiously as to the meaning of the dead body— _why would they show him the body of someone whom—from simple DNA testing—would easily be identified? Why let him notice that particular missing finger?_

 _To make him believe it wasn't his brother, that's all._

 _And why the moving cameras? The doorknob? What could make these two things fail as evidence?_

Then it hit him. Of course—the failure of these evidences was—other people could easily do it. Someone who knows Mycroft—someone who _works_ for Mycroft. But to what end?

To make him _believe_ something.

His eyes shone. _Of course._ This was Mycroft's job. He should have known. But why go all through the trouble when here was his brother—alive and well and seated across him with that ever Machiavellian smirk?

And why would Mycroft say those... things that he say... _unless..._

Sherlock stared at his brother fixedly again and saw no sign of pain, no injury, nothing at all. It was as if he...

"You're not really here, are you?" Sherlock breathed as it struck him and he locked eyes with his brother who was looking up at him with a small smile. "You... you're not you... why this is... this place...you're not here..."

"Why do you say that? I'm here aren't I?" Mycroft blinked at him slyly and sat back on the chair comfortably with another winning smirk on his face, "Maybe it is you who's not really here, _Sherlock._ "

Sherlock turned white. "But where's the _real_ you?"

The Mycroft in his eyes raised an eyebrow.

 _"How would I know?"_

 _Then the ground started to shake—_ and before Sherlock knew it, he was looking at John Watson who had just came in running from the door with a haggard and white, ashen face.

Sherlock stared at his friend blankly and then looked down at the chair where Mycroft was sitting—

And found it empty.

* * *

 ** _The Apology (Part II)_**

 _"You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."_

\- W.S.S. Holmes _(The Man with the Twisted Lip)_

* * *

John slapped a palm on his face and realised how damp it was and how warm. He tried to clear his throat and steady himself but every time his eyes fall on his best friend, he couldn't help feeling years older of the heavy burden of knowing— _finally knowing the fate of the older Holmes._

Sherlock was seated by the fireside with back turned on him, facing the dancing flames. The detective hasn't said a word ever since the doctor came and had meditated on the same position for almost a day till night has fallen.

And still, John couldn't help but remember the words he exchanged with Anthea back at the grave.

 _Mycroft's grave..._

"How is this possible...?" he whispered with a clogged nose, eyes reddening towards the tomb.

"We found their remains... in the ashes of the fire." She whispered.

"Are you sure it's him!?" John shot at her angrily— _just to be sure he had to show his anger_ —so that nobody—nobody would fool him again of another death—that he didn't have to tell his friend all of this—that everything was really the exact truth, no more hiding, no more playing...

In response, she took from her purse a golden ring.

It answered everything and made John shut his eyes close and raise his head up to the sky.

"We only came here once, you remember? When we acted the burial of his younger brother with you lot around." Anthea went on with arms crossed before her as John oscillated to and fro beside her distractedly, "That was the first and last we came here. And Mr. Holmes told me he'll never come back... he said it was one of the hardest things his younger brother asked him to do: _to stand and attend his funeral_ even if it was just pretence. Sherlock Holmes can be calloused, he said and utterly... _dramatic."_

John shook his head.

"Are you sure... about this..." he murmured with a difficult gulp. "I mean—Sherlock— _he would know if his brother's dead._ He—he was smiling when we came back and it could only mean one thing—"

Anthea fell silent and he could feel her tremble.

"Mr. Holmes had it all planned out—"

" _You can't tell me he even planned what to do after his death!"_

She glance at him slightly, the glint in her eyes showing pride. "He has planned everything for this country. What makes you think he'll disregard it even after his death?"

John stood still and in silence. Anthea cleared her throat and looked down the blank stone plate on the ground again.

"Everything's in order... though not as it used to be. But his main concern was his younger brother. It always has been. He left instructions on what to do next in order to prepare him, to _lead him_ in case... well, it has been properly executed."

"Executed what?" John pressed on as he recognised as scheme when he sees one, "what did he asked you to do?"

 _"To lead Sherlock Holmes to believe that his older brother is still alive."_

John could still hear those words resonating in his ears.

And realised he understood what Mycroft was trying to do as he stared at his best friend whose dark, forbidding shadow loomed in front of the fireside—seemingly out of range and lost to the world.

He even feared if Sherlock knew already. They haven't exchanged any words after all.

Fear gripped John and for a moment, he found himself yet again in the position of revealing something that may have an immense strain on the detective—the same position Mycroft put him through about Irene Adler's death—

Was to let Sherlock believe Irene—or his brother for this matter—alive and well somewhere out there _kinder_?

Or _crueller_?

Which is it?

Because the last time John checked, when he asked Anthea why she was telling him all these, she only responded with that _Mycroft-ish_ coldness and said, _"It's your call."_

Maybe she wasn't that heartless after all.

John cleared his throat but Sherlock Holmes didn't look back.

"I'm staying for the night, Sherlock... I'm calling Mary."

"Why?" was the abrupt response.

"I uh... just felt like it."

"There's no need."

"I wasn't asking for your permission." He cleared his throat and stood up. When the detective didn't respond, John headed for the door and then turned and back again.

Sherlock hardly moved from his position except put his finger tips together.

"Sherlock...?"

There was no response.

John watched his silhouette and another surge of sorrow filled him. And he realised he wanted to stay because he really didn't want to leave that lonely figure alone. And then deep within him, John thought he heard Mycroft Holmes' voice loud and clear—

 _"Dr. Watson. Look after him. Please."_

When John was gone, Sherlock's eyes flickered as it reflected the dancing flames.

And found Mycroft standing by the fireside with one elbow on the banister and feet crossed.

"You can't keep ignoring John forever." Mycroft told him with raised eyebrows. "He's the only one you've got."

"Shut up." Sherlock glanced at his brother who smirked at him.

"Do you really want me to do that?"

The detective looked away and silence fell in the world.

Until Mycroft's voice resounded in his head.

"You can't stay in here like this, Sherlock." It was a sad tone.

 _"Watch me."_

"Adamant as ever."

"It's your fault for being dead." Sherlock stopped and then glanced at his brother's way. "I thought we agreed nobody dies, Mycroft?"

"Yes." The older Holmes pressed his lips, " _I'm sorry."_

Then there was no Mycroft there anymore and the detective had to close his eyes with a heavy sigh, put both palms on his face and leaned his head back to the chair, his bottled emotions not knowing how— and so he took his violin from the side cabinet but not even it could reconcile his lost.

 _Mycroft was gone._

Sherlock put the violin down and stared intently once on to the fire quietly. Silently.

Till Mycroft joined him there again. Making Sherlock smile wryly.

"Really can't leave me alone, can you brother?"

"You give me no reason to. I'm always the _worried_ older brother. People should remember me like that."

"Too late. They don't know you."

" _But you do._ And now you know how sincerely I am concerned. So it did really take my _death_ for you to realise."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock shook his head, his voice finally cracking as his head spun around and he couldn't think clearly. _"_ I'm sorry... _This is all inside my head."_

"You're good at that, Sherlock. All inside your head—"

"Stop—just... give me something to hold on to, Mycroft."

 _"Make me proud and get out of this place, brothermine."_

* * *

The next time Sherlock woke up, he was in his room properly tucked in on his bed. He blinked at the familiar dark ceiling and then heard voices outside his door. Turning his head towards it, he recognised John's voice and Mary's... then Mrs. Hudson too. Those people.

He remained silent and immobile on the bed, the idea he had been dreading for weeks finally sinking in.

He was glad his room was dark.

 _"Do you think there's something wrong with us?"_ he remembered asking his brother once.

 _"All lives end... all hearts are broken... caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

He stared up his ceiling, listening to that voice over and over again, his reaction too stoic and indifferent. Then he closed his eyes, hoping Mycroft would come to scold him again—to have a short dialogue battle—anything to make him believe he's not really gone—

Only to realise he does not have the power to summon himself back and immersed himself to the deep ends of his mind palace. He needed help. He needed a dosage to see Mycroft—

But his body wouldn't move and the reason was clear: no amount of drug would return his brother back. And he realised for the final time... _how he wanted to see his brother so much._ The real one.

He pressed his eyes closed and a tear silently fell down its corners.

 _Too late._

All too late.

Sherlock was already drifting back to his sleep when he felt his cell phone vibrate against his palm. With red and heavy eyes opening, the detective was surprised at that amount of weight his chest seemed to be carrying and he let go of the phone to stand up and drink water.

If only he looked down at his phone and saw the name ' _Big Ben'_ which he had been waiting on for weeks.

And will later realise that the message contained exactly this:

 _I'm sorry it took too long._

 _He's alive. I'm alive._

 _Sorry._

 _-M._

* * *

 ** _~END~_**

 _A/N: What do you guys make of that?_

 _an **END is an END.**_

 _Thank you all for reading :D until more Mycroft-Sherlock brotherlywhumps ;)_

 _There should be another one entitled- The Case of the Missing Wallet out there._

 _If I can :)_

 _Again, thank you for the support. **THE SPARE HOLMES.**_

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


	10. The Worst

***The Spare Holmes***

By: _WhiteGloves_

 **~X~**

 **LAST**

 _"There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you."_

\- W.S.S. Holmes _(_ _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ _)_

 ** _A/N:_ _In answer to the mystery of Mycroft Holmes I present-_**

 ** _Our EXIT CHAPTER!_**

 **~Enjoy Reading~**

* * *

 _The Worst_

* * *

 _Sorry it took too long._

 _He's alive. I'm alive._

 _Sorry._

 _-M._

Sherlock stared at the screen of his mobile almost an inch away from his nose.

Eight hours ago he was on verge of a breakdown for losing his brother to the point of believing that even drugs wouldn't be able to appease him. Eight hours ago too he thought of nothing save seeing that same old brother, whom he considered was out of his reach forever. The longest time when he truly believed that he was completely _alone_ without those watchful eyes of the most powerful man in his life— _his older brother—_ always over his shoulders.

Then came the message and like a spark in a plug—like a flash bomb that blinded him from the bottomless pit he sunk in— he was reawakened by new hope. And an unfamiliar surge of mixed emotions overtook him as he stared transfixed at the initial so familiar to his mind.

 _M._

It took his mind a few seconds to snap back to reality. And then the truth of the message struck him—that whatever had been playing in his mind _were really all in his head_ — that it was not true, the horror of his imaginings— _that he was wrong—_

Sherlock didn't remember feeling any relief or joy—he didn't feel them. Instead he remembered feeling nauseous and that painful tremble of his body, not to mention—cold.

He felt icy cold. A lot of air seemed to have filled his lungs so heavy it wanted to be out. All at once.

Then there were tears—lots of them—but Sherlock had already erased the memory and wasn't even sure if it was real—all he knew was that the moment he could get his body to stop shaking and steady himself, he walked out of the house like a shot gun around six in the morning with only his protective dark coat that cloaked him from attention and was gone.

Returning half a day later he found John agitatedly prancing in front of 221B and seemingly ready to tackle him when he found the detective walking his way. Their reunion was halted however when a dark sedan glided quietly beside the street and stopped in front of them. Sherlock raised no question as he jumped in with John immediately behind him who kept demanding where they were going when he didn't exactly remember inviting the doctor to come. He thought he glimpsed Mary and Mrs. Hudson, or didn't he? His mind was just too occupied with these new developments.

One thing was certain however— _Mycroft's alive._

Minutes later, with John Watson harassing him for answers, the two then found themselves in front of the Parliament office.

"Sherlock..." John whispered as two men in black walked in front of them and showed them the way, "What have you done this time?" he looked at his friend who marched towards the entrance without another word.

The next thing, they found themselves seated quietly in a highly secured room with lots of important portraits and paintings hanging by the white walls. The glass table in front of them had nothing on it save a silver laptop and a few folders. No other objects could be seen around more than an accommodating couch set and a table in the middle.

John sat stiffly beside the detective having no idea of what was going on. Sherlock didn't help as he kept his indifferent attitude and eyes transfixed ahead with no interest to the world whatsoever. After another minute of silence, the detective took the mobile from his pocket and stared at it while John frowned at him. Noticing the eyes of the doctor, Sherlock reluctantly slipped his mobile back in his coat pocket exactly as two people entered the room—one of them Anthea.

John's heart skipped a beat at seeing her.

"Good day, gentlemen." Anthea said efficiently as John and Sherlock stood up with eyes on the additional number—

"Hang on—" the doctor said with a quick glance at his friend. _Are they going to tell him about Mycroft?_

"This is Dr. John Watson," Anthea said without prelude to the tall man beside her whose brown eyes locked with the doctor and shook firm hands, presenting someone with power and authority. "Dr. Watson this is Agent Lacksey Carruthers—head of the British Security. MI6."

"Yeah, hello." John said cordially as he eyed the tall man wearing his dark blue three-piece- suit with some importance.

"From the army?" the man said in a very deep voice and then his eyes shifted to the dark haired detective. "Sherlock Holmes?" he said as he offered a hand which Sherlock half-heartedly took. "I'd recognize you anywhere."

"Really." It wasn't a question as the detective let his eyes travel at the man's appearance. "Clearly."

There was no more after that, making Anthea nod and walked around the glass table and took the documents from her table. It was her office, apparently.

"Please sit down." She said, trying to sound brisk but John noticed the falter at the end of her voice. "I hope it doesn't come as a surprise, gentlemen, why you are invited here. And that everything we will tell you is highly and without a doubt— _confidential_."

"Well, you tell us..." The doctor started as he sat down while Agent Carruthers stood firmly behind her, "You called us here." He half glanced at Sherlock who maintained his silence.

Anthea took her time as she opened a folder and turned her laptop screen on. Then glancing up finally she resumed a blank look as she opened her mouth.

"To make it short—it has been confirmed that _Mr. Mycroft Holmes_ is alive."

John stared at the secretary with a numb expression— then it change to an incredulous look till disbelief filled his eyes—he didn't even notice he had stood up as he shot his best friend a look—

But Sherlock remained quietly seated on the chair, eyes transfixed at the secretary. If there was anything that change in his face it wasn't happiness or that sort— _it was a hard expression._

Silence filled the room—a ringing one that made everyone conscious and expectant.

But there was no other _reaction_ that followed.

Till Agent Carruthers blinked and pressed a smirk.

"Well, that was awkward. No _emotional outburst_?" he suggested as he and Sherlock locked gaze with still no visible expression from the detective. And Carruthers turned to Anthea with a mild expression. "They really are _brothers,_ I see."

"He's alive, I get it." Sherlock's cold tone surprised them as he sat straight with eyes lingering on the office mates, "It's a fact that has already been established. The point now would be to tell me _exactly_ what you guys have been doing to find him?"

John watched Sherlock with a frown on his face as his suspicion began to centrefold. _Did Sherlock know...?_

Anthea and Agent Carruthers exchanged looks, their faces turning serious at the matter. And by then John knew that something was amiss his knowledge.

"What exactly is going on?" he started, alarmed by the fact that Sherlock seemed to follow their current abductors' purpose and the context of the conversation. "What's happened to Mycroft? How did you confirm he's alive?" he shot the question at Anthea whom he remembered not so long ago crying in front of what appeared to be _another_ fake grave.

She shifted her eyes away as she sat on the chair while Agent Carruthers took the folder from her hands and began relaying details.

"Approximately eight hours ago we received a transmitter signal from track number 001874 along the area of Northern Ireland—borders of the territory for the British responsibility and moving South of the country. This track number as it so happens belongs personally to Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"It's a specially designed sim card transmitter." Anthea promptly followed up as she gazed at the men before her, the confidentiality in her tone apparent. "One that can only be activated via code word. It's a password encrypted design that only Mr. Mycroft Holmes can trigger. Thus our conclusion—"

"He's alive." John breathed finally, having someone to properly react at the unfolding of events. He turned to Sherlock with such relief, a break of smile and a threat of chuckle ready to come out. "Sherlock—you're brother—"

"How did he get this tracer?" Sherlock cut him off in the next beat, his dark eyes in full attention, "He's been missing for two weeks why didn't he use it before then? And if he can communicate—let alone sent a signal why only just now?"

"Mr. Holmes has always kept this particular tracer in his wallet along with his other important SD cards, sim, and micro chips." The secretary answered with a shake of her head, "I don't remember him leaving it off when he came to your rescue." she gave Sherlock a look. "It is probable that he was able to keep it. We've actually been waiting for it."

Sherlock listened to her, all the while his mind palace jumping back on a memory of Mycroft and his infuriated voice saying right after he exploded the whole warehouse to bits and pieces—

 _"Wallet—wallet—they took my wallet—dammit."_

His eyes flickered at the memory and he inhaled— "Of course..."

"He might have been able to get hold of a mobile—" Carruthers mentioned-

"Obviously—" the detective was as relentless as ever-

"And used it to send a message and activated the SOS for a short moment— we lost contact after."

 _"You lost it?"_ Sherlock said heatedly—

"We already sent people to comb the area, as expected." Anthea assured him with the same fierce look with one who knows what she was doing.

"Hang on—you said SOS?" John abruptly repeated with his frown deepening, "He's in danger?"

"It's more than just _'danger'_." The Agent's eyes darkened and there was a visible clenching of his jaw. " _It's a national crisis."_ He stood in his full height while Anthea flipped the pages of the report in her hands and handed it to Sherlock who scanned down the profile and saw the familiar lion faced Coronel he had the displeasure of encountering back at that blazing forest.

"Your brother had suspected the involvement of the Jackal, Coronel Sebastian Moran and expected more than just his person. He expected a terrorist army ready for back up and so Mr. Holmes brought his own. But because of the unexpected turn of events with the explosion and the forest fire— things went out of hand."

Sherlock squared his jaw and narrowed his eyes at her.

"But he's dead, isn't he? Moran?" the doctor was in full disbelief and afraid of what to hear next. "You found his remains you said before?"

"We did. He's dead." Anthea nodded with pursed lips, "But what happened to Mr. Holmes next remains unknown—and that all we know is he is being carried off outside the country... apparently by the same people who were allied with the Jackal in this abduction."

Sherlock's lips parted open at the sudden bolt from the blue.

"How did you know—?"

"They sent a word."

"What?"

"Wait— _but they are terrorists!"_ John's brows creased in alarm, "You mean these guys plan to kill him?"

"No— killing him would be light." Sherlock's voice was calm and languid—almost a whisper. But his expression was of utmost sincerity—and for thefirst time even _fear_ was visible in his eyes as he gazed at the others _—_

"Indeed, it's worse than that." Carruthers nodded gravely as Anthea turned the laptop screen toward the detective and the doctor while he went on, "Mr. Holmes is chiefly _the British Government_ , no doubt about that... he knows _everything_ about our country, let alone, the Royal family. His abduction does not only raise question of his safety... _but of the whole nation._ Now imagine... if things get more out of hand."

Anthea showed them a website with guns and bombs as header—and with the logo and symbolism of different terrorist groups—and then on the very same page was Mycroft Holmes' _profile—_ revealing facts of everything he does and who he really is.

Sherlock stood up immediately as he stared at the website, his lips drying and eyes widening.

 _"This...!"_

John couldn't believe his eyes either as he read the content that made his eyebrows rose up to heaven and even put a fist to his lips. The Mycroft he knew, it seemed, was only the tip of the ice berg.

"Sherlock..." he whispered, his feet turning cold as he understood the exact meaning of the exposure. "Your brother's in trouble."

"No..." Sherlock gritted his teeth as his eyes scanned everything and remembered everything. Long ago he had vowed never to speak of Mycroft to anyone when he realised what his brother does. He made it a point that nobody would know him, save those he trusts and they weren't many. Because Mycroft's job was not something to meddle with—it was something more than confidentiality and secrets—

It was a nation's worth.

Over and over he kept calling Mycroft an idiot for taking on such a responsibility—a true Queen and country persona— wielding this entire power _only he could_ control. Just because he was Mycroft Holmes.

And for him to be revealed to public—let alone a page for rebels who most likely will have a field day in hunting power— a _leverage_ or some sort to one of the most powerful countries in the world.

Sherlock could literally feel his brother slipping out of his fingers every second of his waking moment and just then he was thinking of every bit of possibility to find and take his brother back before all the terrorists in the world _find him._

John was wrong—it wasn't 'trouble'.

 _"_ No, John..." Sherlock breathed in anger, _"This is Mycroft's worst case scenario!"_

* * *

 ** _~END of a New Beginning~_**

 _A/N: The **Last** for this Title._

 _ **SPARE HOLMES** takes its bow :D_

 _Thank you for reading and hopefully we'll see each other in the short sequel~_

 ** _The Hidden Holmes._**

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**


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